


Totally Clueless

by jeynestheon



Series: Romantic Idealisms [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AND YES I MEAN SLOW BURN, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Humor, Jon and the Starks Are Not Related, Lyanna is Not a Stark, Mentions of past abuse, Modern Royalty, Modern Westeros, Ned is Jon’s godfather basically, Pining, Slow Burn, The clueless au that was promised, don’t like it don’t read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2019-09-05 10:59:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 129,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16809325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeynestheon/pseuds/jeynestheon
Summary: The thing about Jon Snow is that he’s like if pre Winona Ryder Johnny Depp had a baby with Jared Leto—replacing the drinking and slight drug problem with an addiction to brooding of course—so objectively speaking, he’s kind of a Baldwin. And that alone helps him get away with everything, including being an asshole. Not like in a rude, puppy kicking way, but in a, “I’m gonna spend almost all of my time at your house, become a routine part of your life whilst stealing your siblings away from you and teasing you at the same time, only to disappear and show up on your doorstep two years later a Targaryen prince and do it again,” kind of way.Needless to say:Jon Snow complicates things.Jon moves back home in exchange for a job at the Stark law firm, and Sansa is convinced he’s doing so just to spite her. Despite this, she’s determined to get along with him and make her dad happy, just as she’s determined to make the best of her senior year and fix what remains of her reputation after her disasterous break up with Joffrey. With that, Jon may just be useful, considering he left home a bastard, and came back an estranged prince.[loosely based off of Clueless (1995)]





	1. Sansa

Sansa watches it all fall apart from the living room flat screen.

**King Rhaegar Targaryen welcomes beautiful bouncing 20 year old son into the family from a common northern girl.**

There’s a long beat of tense silence in the room. It’s palpable; fills her throat, wraps her hands on her shoulders and _shakes_ her. She doesn’t say anything, can’t say anything because it’d probably just be a steady stream of Jon Prince Jon Prince Jon Prince Jon is an actual fucking Prince—

“But it’s _Jon._ ” Bran gapes. The astronomy book in his lap lays on the floor forgotten. “He isn’t...I mean, he’s _Jon_.”

Robb grimaces. Sansa knows that grimace. It’s the same grimace he used after “accidentally” watched _The Challenge_ without her.“Well, he is.”

Arya’s neck should have snapped by how fast she turns to glare at him. “You knew?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t?”

She scowls. Rickon fidgets at the other end of the couch, mouth flopping open and closed like a fish, and Bran looks torn between utter fascination and devastation and Sansa, she doesn’t really know what she feels, just that the hysterical laugh bubbling up in her throat will definitely be taken the wrong way. She doesn’t know what to say, only knows what she would have said a few months ago.

_Bullshit._

Jon, who had more or less lived right across the hallway from her ever since she was 11, Jon, who used to beg his mom for stupid fencing lessons, Jon who refused to take any charity from Ned and resorted to working as a pizza delivery boy to scrape together enough money to buy the same clunk of junk Jeep he was rolling in at this very moment, Jon, who went through the most unbearable Karl Marx phase when he was 15, Jon, who used to tug on her ponytail in order to get her to stop giving him the silent treatment...that same Jon. A prince. A Targaryen prince, no less.

“Bullshit,” is precisely what Sansa would have exclaimed a few months ago, if not too confidently, because it just _had_ to be.

This is not a few months ago.

She looks at the collage of pictures on the screen, of the royal family, of _Jon_ (they were one in the same now.) He’s dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that probably costs more than Robb’s tuition at Trident U and looks absolutely miserable in it. It was taken at Queen Elia’s birthday celebration just an hour ago, and the crown Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon stand on either side of him, conversing. All lined up like this, with the King’s picture not too far away, the resemblance is obvious. The aristocratic like nose. The generous mouth. The prince even shares a dimple with Jon in his right cheek. It’s undeniable. Unmistakable. “Bullshit,” is what Sansa would have said a few months ago, this time a little tremulous, faith considerably shaken.

“How cinematic.” Is what she says now.

  


*

  


“You should call him.” Sansa tells Arya later that night in her room.

Everything looks to be unorganized, askew, yet Arya knows exactly where to find everything. She pulls her combat boots from under her bed and starts tugging them on with far too much force than should be possible from a body as small as hers, and pulls on her jean jacket so roughly it could have ripped. “Why? He didn’t bother to call me.”

Sansa stifles an eye roll. She has no idea why she’s standing here trying to broker a preemptive peace between Jon and Arya, just knows that it must be done. It was better to suffer them together than it was to suffer them apart. “Just look at what’s happened. he _obviously_ had a good reason for keeping it from us.”

His mother having a secret affair with the King that resulted in his birth seemed like as good of a reason as any, honestly. It was trending all over Twitter, and the media, specifically the Baelish Independent, the people who first broke the story, were having a field day. She couldn’t imagine what Jon, someone who prided himself on his ability to fly under the radar was going through right now.

(Maybe for a _few_ seconds Sansa thought about calling him, just to check in.)

(She chickens out.)

“And how _convenient_ it is that you’re suddenly interested in that reason.” Arya snaps back, lips pressed thin. “So because he’s a fucking prince now he’s good enough for you? Is that it?”

“No! That’s not—I never said he was like, _below_ me in the first place,” Sansa shrills indignantly. “I just—It’s Jon _._ He’s still _Jon._ ”

Arya wavers at that for the smallest second. She’s still not as good at hiding her emotions as she thinks she is, but Sansa will never tell her so unless she wants to die a gruesome death. Her sister shoves past her, and stomps down the stairs without a word.

(She’s not really sure if it worked until she presses her ear to door of her sister’s room on the way to bed and hears her laugh. It’s that laugh reserved specifically for _him_. Sansa doesn’t need the phone to be on speaker to know that he’s probably laughing too. She’s okay.

He’s okay.)

***

If there’s one thing that everyone knows about Sansa, it’s this:

She’s a planner.

She really, _really_ likes plans.

Probably more than any teenage girl should, but more specifically, she likes following them. Rules are her friend. Regulations are her specialty. She’d long ago stopped believing in promises, as with promises came hope, and with hope came soul crushing disappointment. But her father had never broken a promise, and was even less likely to not follow a premeditated plan.

This was not apart of the plan.

“Jon’s coming home?” Rickon asks excitedly. The words bounce off the interior of Sansa’s brain like rubber, “Jon” and “home” and she doesn’t like the sound of it. Not one bit. “When?”

“Sometime this week.” Arya informs them between bites of turkey bacon charred black. She seems smug that she finally knows something before everyone else. “Right Dad?”

“Saturday or Sunday.” Ned agrees, taking a sip of his coffee. “I’m still working out the...logistics, but it’s possible you and Sansa will have to go pick him up.”

Sansa blinks. Pinches the meat of her thigh underneath the table. Counts her perfectly manicured fingers afterwards. No, this isn’t some horribly, sick and twisted dream. It’s very much real. She tries for a good natured laugh. “You’re like, _joking,_ right?”

Her father frowns. He doesn’t ever really joke about anything, but she figured there’d be no harm in at least asking. “No. Do those days not work for you, Sansa?”

He asks “Do those days not work for you?” Because he cannot possibly fathom a world that Sansa, out of all of his children, would be the one to go against the grain. That was partially her fault, she knows. In her effort to make things easier for him without her mother around, she became a people pleaser. More specifically, a father pleaser. She was just too reliable, even more than Robb. It was more of a curse than a blessing. Sansa forces a sugary sweet smile on to her lips.

“Sorry, Daddy. I have ASB meetings on both of those days.” She says, which isn’t exactly a lie. She was meeting with the student council to decide on the theme for the first school dance on Friday, but she had no excuse for Saturday. And she would milk it for as long as possible.

“Of course.” Ned nods. “We’ll figure it out, don’t worry. He’ll probably need a security team, anyway.”

(That was the only mention he had made of Jon’s predicament so far. Never mind that it was the reason he was coming home. Never mind the fact that he probably had his own Wikipedia page by now. Her father refused to say anything about it, save for turning off the TV when he walked in later that night to find them with their eyes glued to the screen.

“Jon is family. Lyanna was family. I won’t hear of this in my house.”

It had been three years since the funeral, and three since he had last spoke her name.

Sansa couldn’t remember the last time he said their mother’s.)

Arya hides her snort with a loud slurp of coffee, and Robb gives her that disappointed look that makes her feel like she has two fathers rather than one. He always knows when she’s lying. He says, “I’d do it if I wasn’t going leaving tomorrow, Dad. Sorry.”

“I can’t believe you’re leaving so soon.” Bran frowns. “It’s like we’re never all home together.”

Sansa felt inclined to agree. She spent her spring semester of sophomore year and her entire junior year at boarding school in King’s Landing, and by the time she got home, Robb and Jon had already graduated, and since his mom’s funeral, Jon hadn’t spent any holidays with them. This summer was the closest the manor had felt to home in awhile.

Robb ruffles Bran’s hair affectionately, grinning.“I’ll be home for fall break soon enough, yeah?”

“Not fast enough.” Rickon pouts. “Who’s gonna save us from Sansa’s cooking?”

Sansa scowls. “There is _nothing_ wrong with eating a healthy balanced meal—“

“Yeah, if it were edible.” Arya snickers, lifting up a pancake that admittedly looked less like food than the lakeshore cooking set Rickon used to have when he was a baby. “Give it up, _Jenny Craig_ —”

“If you weren’t such being such a _brat_ and raising Daddy’s blood pressure, then maybe he could afford to have a little more sodium in his diet—”

“Yes, and if wishes were fishes, we’d all be fishermen.” Robb interjects seamlessly, right before Arya can open up her mouth again. That’s what he’s good at, diffusing their fights. “It’s barely ten in the morning. Can’t we all just get along?”

Rickon nods sagely, as if he wasn’t just the source of conflict mere seconds ago, but a withering glare from Sansa and Arya both whips him into shape. Bran laughs, and Robb rolls his eyes, and it hits Sansa very suddenly that in just a few days, this was all going to change. And while Robb going back to Trident U at the end of the semester was apart of the plan, Jon replacing him _wasn’t._

That’s a problem.

“Doesn’t he have like, school?” She complains to Robb in his room later on, watching him pack. “Work? Anything else to do in the world, really?”

“He’s coming to work with Dad at the firm.” Robb says. “And he’s transferring to White Harbor for his last year. You’re going to have to get along with him, Sans.”

And so it begins.

The indoctrination of every single one of her siblings into the Jon Snow fan club, but that would imply that they left in the first place. Even Robb, who often patted himself on the back for being a neutral party was biased. They’d never admit it, but they always liked Jon better than her, and it’s always rankled.For the _tiniest_ micro second, she had felt bad for him. And _this_ is how the universe repaid her.

“I’m always nice! _He’s_ the one you should be talking to.”

And she is.

Sansa fucking _tries._ That’s one thing, not even Arya can take away from her. She’s a trooper. A people pleaser. A take one for the team type of girl. Except she’d been taking this one for the team for the last 18 years of her life and it was starting to really suck.

The thing about Jon Snow is that he’s like if pre Winona Ryder Johnny Depp had a baby with Jared Leto—replacing the drinking and slight drug problem with an addiction to brooding of course—so objectively speaking, he’s kind of a Baldwin. And that alone helps him get away with everything, including being an asshole. Not like in a rude, puppy kicking way, but in a, “I’m gonna spend almost all of my time at your house, become a routine part of your life whilst stealing your siblings away from you and teasing you at the same time, only to disappear and show up on your doorstep two years later a Targaryen prince and do it again,” kind of way.

Needless to say:

Jon Snow complicates things.

Robb rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. Shit’s not easy for him right now. Don’t be so hard on him.”

If _anything_ , Jon was hard on her. Excessively so. No matter how hard she tried, ever since she was eight, there would never be a “Sansa and Jon.” She had long ago accepted that they were far too fundamentally different to ever get along, and decided that steering clear of him was the closest she’d ever get to getting along with him.

And he’s fucking _annoying._

And not in a “God, he never shuts up, kind of way.” In fact, Jon never really talked much around others. (That was one of the things Sansa liked best about him, he was easier to suffer through when he was quiet). But in a pretentious moral superiority fashion. Every time he criticizes Sansa on her “materialistic snob tendencies that further advance the capitalist regime” whatever the fuck _that_ means, he conveniently forgets he practically grew up in a mansion, just like her. _Their_ mansion. He forgets that for awhile, he went to a private school, just like her. Every hypocritical thing Jon has ever done goes flying out the window the minute Sansa walks in, just because she happened to want to indulge herself that day, and buy a pair of manolos.

(This may or may not have happened a lot.)

(She _really really_ likes manolos.)

“I’ll be the very _picture_ of cordiality.” She finally sighs.

“That’s my girl.” Robb grins, tweaking her nose. “You two have never really understood each other. Maybe this’ll help. Who knows? You might find something you actually _like_ about each other.”

_As if,_ Sansa wants to drawl sarcastically, but she knows her brother’s optimism is notoriously hard to dampen. So instead, she puts on a brave smile. “We’ll see.”

“We _will_.” He agrees confidently. “I’m always right eventually.”

***

Sansa has exactly one bad habit: retail therapy.

“Okay, _bullshit._ ” Jeyne Poole laughs, earning the attention of some shoppers walking past their table at Hot Pie’s. It was tradition, after a particularly grueling trip at the Wintertown mall, to have a bubble tea at Hot Pie’s. “There’s no way he’s always looked like this.”

Sansa makes herself busy by fishing through her Neiman Marcus bag for something, anything to keep her from looking at Jeyne’s phone. This were still dozen of articles about Jon and the rest of the royal family being released by the minute. It didn’t feel right to read any of them.

(It also didn’t feel right that she hadn’t gotten a proper glimpse of Jon in three years. Her father had turned the TV off to fast for her to get a good look.)

“He was always cute.” Alys declares. “Not as cute as Robb, but like...cute.”

“Anybody can be cute.” Jeyne says, rolling her eyes. “Puppies are cute. Babies are cute. Does this look _cute_ to you?”

Whatever Jeyne shows her makes Alys’ eyes widen. A slow grin spreads across her face and she lets out a soft. “Oh.” Sansa is pretty sure she has never wanted to see anything more in her life. “What? What is it?”

“Nothing!” Alys says, maybe even a little too quickly, tucking a lock of auburn behind her ear. “He just—he’s different. He looks _different._ Really different.”

Jeyne scoffs. “He looks like he’d _spank_ me.”

“Okay, ew!” Sansa shouts maybe a little too loudly, cheeks heating up. “As if I needed that image in my head!”

“Don’t tell Theon I said that.” Jeyne warns her. It’s a very Theon thing to say. Sansa’s not sure what to think of how much he’s rubbing off on her. She’s still not sure what to make of the relationship in the first place. “Gods, no wonder you’re like, having a mental breakdown.”

“I am _not._ ” Sansa insists, because that’s not what it is, and even if she was, it certainly wasn’t over Jon. “I’m just...decompressing. Recuperating.”

“Honey…” Alys tries. “You bought _three_ pairs of the same ankle boots in different colors.”

Sansa sniffs. “It’s been a long day.”

Jeyne snorts. “It’s eleven in the morning.”

Sansa huffs. “I didn’t bring you guys here so you could judge me, okay? Aren’t you guys, like, supposed to be showing me unconditional love and suppo—”

Jeyne gasps.“Is that a tattoo?”

Sansa nearly knocks over their drinks reaching over the table to snatch the phone from Jeyne’s hand.

And it’s a lot.

It might even be too much.

And it’s not even the fact that he’s walking side by side with the future Queen of the seven kingdoms and her cousin, Arianne Martell that shocks Sansa—although it does irk her the tiniest bit, the way the older woman was leaning into him so closely and laughing. Since when had Jon ever been that funny?—it was the fact that he didn’t really look like the Jon she remembered from three years ago at all. His hair was too long, and curled at the curve of his jaw, and the tattoo in question was on his forearm, partially hidden by the sleeve of his shirt (which is by far the worst part about the whole thing because it’s an actual shade on the color spectrum that isn’t black. Since when had he started doing that? Who _gave him permission_ to start doing that?) and she can’t even tell what it is, just that it’s pretty. _He’s_ pretty.

Sansa’s nostrils flare. “This is the _meanest_ thing he’s ever done to me.”

“Unusually cruel.” Alys deadpans. The way her eyes glitter betray her. “Oh Sansa, You won’t last a _night_.”

“Yeah, without _killing_ him.” Sansa snaps, wrinkling her nose. “I mean, come on. Guys, it’s _Jon._ He finally grew into his abnormally large head. It also happens to have a crown. So what? It’s not—it’s _never_ been like that.”

_Never_.

“Really?” Jeyne asks. “Because I seem to remember it being quite different. Freshman year ring any bells?”

“You can’t hold that against me!” Sansa hisses, eyes darting around to check if literally anyone was in their vicinity, as she’d rather have all of her acrylics split in the middle than have Jon find out she was thinking about him in any capacity. “I was _fifteen_ and _hormonal.”_

It wasn’t like she had actually kissed him, or doodled his name in her notebook, or anything remotely stupid like that. It was just a dream. One dream. She still hated him then. Maybe even more than she did currently. But he was also sharing a bathroom with her and walking around with nothing but a towel on that left little to the imagination, and his voice got _deeper_ and his eyes got _brighter—_

There was only so many dickprints a girl could take.

“And now you’re 18 and hormonal.” Jeyne shrugs. “I’m just saying, nobody would blame you for taking certain liberties this time around.”

“You’d guys probably even get along better for it.” Alys adds, smirking. “You know what they say: a thin line between love and hate...et cetera...et cetera….”

It’s on the tip of her tongue, how much that _doesn’t_ apply to her and Jon (because if it applies now, that meant it had always applied and there isn’t a single thought that scares her more) when a sultry, saccharine voice interrupts.

“Sansa! Is that you, darling?”

_This day just keeps getting better and better._

Margaery Tyrell comes sashaying forward with her flock hens bobbing after her, all sun kissed brown and perfect from her summer in the Reach. Her heeled sandals clacking against the floor sound distinctly like a Funeral march. Heads turn as she walks past, green sundress fluttering around her thighs, and while Sansa could have _sworn_ this was an indoor mall, her brown curls tousle slightly in the wind. Things have always just worked like that for Margaery.

“Marge! I had no idea you’d be back so soon.” The smile that stretches across Sansa’s face is painful to maintain. The air kiss and embrace that comes afterwards is almost mechanical. “I would have come over!”

She wouldn’t have. Sansa doesn’t doubt that Margaery knows that. But this is what they will do, for the sake of appearances if nothing else. There was no making it back into the good graces of student body at Queenscrown without Wyman Manderly’s stepdaughter, as loathed as she was to admit it. An ally was an ally, no matter the past behind them. For now.

“It was on such short notice, don’t even sweat it.” Margaery waves a dismissive hand after embracing Alys. Her and Jeyne don’t even bother, settling for a strained smile. “It’s been what? Almost two years? It’s so good to see you!”

“You too!” Sansa squeezes her arms. “You look great.”

How badly she wishes that was a lie.

“Stop. You’re embarrassing me.” Margaery gushes. Even fake modesty looks good on her. “Does this mean you’re slumming it with the rest of us this year and attending Queenscrown?”

Margaery no doubt had connections in the south. It would be foolish and naive to believe she didn’t already know what happened with Joffrey in King’s Landing. Their relationship was never exactly private; he was the prime minister’s grandson. The whole school probably knew. There was no way of knowing what Joffrey was telling anybody else either. But as long as they had the decency to talk about it behind her back...Sansa would find a way to get over it. “Yep! I guess I was homesick. I’m glad to be back.”

“You have to tell me _all_ about it soon.” Margaery demands in a conspiratorial stage whisper. “I can’t wait.”

“Definitely.” Sansa lies. The freshman year version of herself would have been eager to acquiesce, eager to please. But she knew better. And Margaery knew she knew better. It still doesn’t stop her from trying.

“Oh. And I also heard the news. I’m so sorry that you and your family have gotten caught up in all of this.” She sighs, shaking her head. “Daddy was driving me home from the airport, and I saw all those reporters outside of your gates. It’s such an invasion of privacy.”

And this was it.

The moment of truth.

It wasn’t exactly a secret, her family’s close association with Jon. In fact, upon setting out for the mall, there were a few paparazzi waiting outside of the gate of their neighborhood that barred them entry. When Lyanna had gotten sick, Ned had pulled some strings to enroll Jon at Queenscrown, and he was hardly ever seen without Robb at his side. For her whole freshman year, it was, “You’re Robb and Jon’s sister, right?” To which she would vehemently deny being any relation to the latter,

Honestly, Sansa could have probably anticipated and planned for this moment if Jon had just told them in the first place. It was yet another obstacle, yet _another_ thing stacked against her. How would she be able to tell if anyone was her friend, or just using her to get closer to Jon? How would she be able to know what she was allowed to say, and what she wasn’t allowed to? There’s no denying she could very well use this to her advantage. Rise to the top with it. Maybe even rise higher than Margaery.

But she couldn’t betray Jon.

She wouldn’t.

_(Seven save me.)_

So Sansa doesn’t say anything. Just smiles.

“If you need anything, anything at all, you know I’m always here.” Margaery takes her hand, squeezing. “Don’t ever hesitate. Even if you need someone just to talk to. ”

Her sycophants voice their agreement, and it takes so much not to roll her eyes. Jeyne is not so lucky, and snorts aloud. Sansa would never dream of confiding in any of them, but it was best they didn’t know that. “You’re a real gem, Marg.”

“I’ve really missed you, Sans.” She smiles, holding her hand to heart. As if it was so big it was fit to burst. She had forgotten how dramatic the older girl was. “Hey! Maybe you could even try out for cheer again? I remember how talented you were. You’d probably even make captain this year.”

_I remember how talented you were. You’d probably even make captain this year._

Sansa’s never been a violent person. Not really.

But in that moment, her palm itches the tiniest bit. The nerve, Margaery had. The audacity. Like she hadn’t been the one to have her minions lock her in a closet around the time of freshman cheer tryouts in the first place, preventing her from making it. Sansa had spent three hours in a dark broom closet until the janitor came at six to let her out. Everyone had left without her. She had cried herself dehydrated. It was one of the most embarrassing moments of her life.

“Bitch.” Jeyne snaps, like she was thinking the exact same thing and was getting ready to say something about it. Sansa pinches her under the table, watching Margaery’s eyes widen innocently. Triumphantly.

Sansa would _not_ give her the satisfaction.

“I take it that means you’re stepping down this year?”

Margaery shrugs with a glossy smile. “I mean, not completely. I’ll still be on the team and running tryouts. But I’m keeping my schedule open just in case I get accepted for the Royce-Lannister Internship. A girl can’t be too busy.”

Her heart nearly stops in her chest. “Royce-Lannister internship? Like Myranda Royce-Lannister?”

“Yeah, the designer.”

The _designer._ Margaery says it so nonchalantly, you wouldn’t have thought she was talking about a multi billion dollar business woman. Myranda had it all, and was quite literally everything Sansa wanted to be: married, successful, and beloved by the entire country. She was one of, if not, the best fashion designers in the country. For her 25th birthday, Princess Rhaenys wore one of her gowns to the ball. While dating Joffrey, Sansa had always _hoped_ he’d take her back to Casterly Rock to introduce her to his stepmother for the holidays, but they always spent all their time at Storm’s End with his mother and stepfather, and she never got a chance. “Where did you even he—“

“It was in the latest issue of Valyrian.” Margaery replies breezily. “I can’t believe you guys missed it. Apparently she’s looking for a talented young woman with an eye for business and fashion to fill a spot in her company. Interested?”

_Yes. a million times yes._ Sansa wants to scream, but she just smiles blithely instead. It wouldn’t do any good for Margaery to know just how much she was interested, unless she wanted to end up in another closet just in time for the application deadline. Whenever that was. “Maybe. I’m not sure I’ll have the time though.”

“Pity.” Margaery sighs. “A little friendly competition never hurt anyone,”

(Just me.)

“I actually have to run off, or I’ll miss my mani pedi. But it was great to see you.” Sansa receives one more quick, airy, cinnamon scented hug. “Talk soon?”

Her cheek muscles are exhausted. “Not soon enough!”

It takes approximately five minutes for Margaery and her flock of hens to trot off to the far end of the mall in the direction of the nail salon Sansa had just gotten her own mani pedi at days ago, and not a second later does Jeyne slam her hands against the table.

“We’re applying for that internship, right?”

Sansa smirks. “ _Fucking duh.”_

***

“It just seems too easy.” Alys says later on, when they’re in the car after one last round of window shopping. “Why else would she have brought it up? What if she has some like, secret weapon?”

“Unless it’s a sewing machine, I’m not worried.” Sansa declares, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. How long had it been since she felt like this? Giddy for something? Excited for something? “Besides, if I win, or Jeyne does, it could be a chance for us to show Myranda our designs.”

That was how her and Jeyne had become friends in the first place: a fashion workshop for kids. Their father’s had already worked together at Stark and Associates, and their mothers had been fast friends. The dream of starting a clothing line had been halted for awhile, after she had left for King’s Landing, but all Summer, her and Jeyne stayed up late and worked on designs, using Alys and sometimes Bran as a mannequin. If one of them won, it’d be like both of them winning.

“What about Myranda? She’s Joffrey’s stepmother!” Alys pointed out. “Isn’t that like, a conflict of interest?”

“It’s always gonna be a conflict of interest.” For every single Westerosi, there were at least five Lannisters. The name had too much reach. “I’m not gonna let Joffrey ruin my life more than he already has. I’m tired of hiding.”

That was another thing she had been doing all summer. Hiding. Healing, inside and out. When she came home in May, her arm was in a sling. Her eye was swollen shut. Her ankle was broken, and so were some of her ribs. She only had the courage to let Jeyne and Alys visit her an entire month later, when her eye had yellowed, and she could walk again. It had taken even longer to get used to the looks they gave each other, the looks her siblings gave each other, when they thought she wasn’t looking. Looks of bewilderment. Pity.

Sansa was _tired_ of being pitied.

Alys sighs apologetically, reaching to the front seat and taking her hand. Squeezing it. “I just want you to be happy. Safe and happy.” Alys said. “You deserve it more than anyone.”

“I know.” Sansa looks at her best friends, and she’s never felt more grateful for anyone else. “Applying to this internship will make me _happy_ , you know. Winning will make me _happy._ ”

“So will rubbing it in Margaery‘s face.” Jeyne grins. “And honestly, that’s more than enough reason for me.”

They burst into laughter. In that moment, Sansa is floating on cloud 9. Content. Determined. It all comes crashing down when they reenter their gated community, only to find reporters still out in front, a flurry of a camera flashes. They had multiplied since she had left, and made themselves comfortable with camping chairs. As if Jon was going to miraculously appear in front of them if they waited just a bit longer.

_Jon._

“I still have no clue what I’m gonna do about _Jon_.” Sansa groans, as the gate closes behind them and the camera flashes fade.

Jeyne frowned. “I thought we decided you were just gonna bang him.”

“For the last time, I am _not_ having sex with him.” Sansa shouted. “I’m serious! What am I gonna do?”

“Die of pent up sexual aggression is what it sounds like.” Alys muttered under her breath.

Before Sansa can even think of a retort, Jeyne shrieks, “WAIT!” and reflexively, Sansa stamps her foot on the break, nearly choking herself with her seatbelt in the process. The road before them is empty of any pedestrians and animals, and just as she’s about to throttle Jeyne for scaring the living shit out of her, she says:

“That’s it. That’s the solution! _Jon._ ”

“No.” Sansa huffs. “he’s the problem. He was born a problem.”

“Not anymore!” Jeyne says. When nobody says anything in response, blinking at her in confusion, she lets out the biggest sigh. “Think about it: why’s Jon got everyone up in a tizzy?”

“He’s the King’s secret son.”

“And what does that make _him?_ ” She drawls.

“A prince.”

“And his half sister, who is she?”

“The crown princess.” Alys says, sounding equally as nonplussed. “I don’t see what that—“

“And who makes her _gowns_?”

And then it hits her.

“You think Jon’s our ticket to Myranda?”

“I mean, he seems pretty close with Rhaenys already. She is his sister.” Jeyne cocks an eyebrow. “Why not?”

Sansa narrows her gaze. “Because it’s sounds like cheating.”

“It _sounds_ like an advantage to combat our disadvantage.” Jeyne argues. “She might not get along with Joffrey, good, but you were associated with Joffrey too. Would you want anybody associated with Joffrey working at your company? Even if he was your stepson?”

_She’s right_. Whether Myranda hates Joffrey or not, the fact she might know her name is already a strike against her. Besides, this was about getting their designs in front of Myranda. Not the internship. That was just a bonus. As long as they focused on that, it wouldn’t be cheating. At the very most, Myranda could see them and decided that she wanted Sansa for the internship. What was the harm in that if she decided herself that she liked Sansa’s talent?

“Fair enough.” She acquiesces. “But how are we going to get Jon to do this? I don’t think he’s gonna do it for free.”

Jeyne grins unabashedly. “You could still ba—”

“Something that isn’t along the lines of prostitution,” Sansa interjects, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Anyone?”

Jeyne sighs a long suffering sigh, popping her bubblegum impetuantly. Alys hums thoughtfully, looking thoroughly put out that the fuck plot had been taken out of the running for the fourth time, before snapping her fingers:

“You could try being _nice._ ”

Sansa levels her friend with a glare. “I’m _always_ nice,”

“Yeah, but I mean thoughtful.” Alys elaborates. “Like, make him coffee and breakfast in the morning, or watch him play video games, or hang out with him. I don’t know. Just do something with him that he likes to do. It works, sometimes.”

_Nice._

_Nice._

Come to think of it, Joffrey was always the most amiable and charming after they just done doing what he wanted to do. The best way to get her father to say yes to something was to make him a fresh pot of coffee in the morning. Was this what Robb meant earlier when he said be nice, get to know him? Sansa honestly couldn’t remember a time she had ever spent alone with Jon, nevermind intentionally. “You really think he’d fall for that?”

“It’s boring.” Jeyne pouts.

“It’s foolproof.” Alys corrects matter of factly. “One time, Sigorn was deadset on us going camping with his weird ass family and I really wanted to stay home because _ew. Camping._ But I went anyway and we went fishing and he had a such a good time that he went down on me for two hours straight that same night. I couldn’t even walk in the morning, and it took me three days to get all the tree sap out of my hair but—I’d do it again. It made him really happy.”

(Sansa tempted to ask about the length of time Sigorn spent down there, just as she's tempted to wonder how in the world Alys had got so much tree sap stuck in her hair, but she blushes, and realizes she actually doesn't want to know.)

“Well, _that_ doesn’t sound boring.” Jeyne teases. “And it’s simple. Sansa, you just might get spanked after all!”

“There will be no _spanking._ ” Sansa cuts in. “Or banging of any kind. I’ll make peace with Jon, play nice, and get our designs to Myranda. _That_ is it. That is the plan.”

And now, Sansa, the planner, officially has a new plan.

It’s appears to be, for the most part, a really solid plan.

(No.)

(No it isn’t.)


	2. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it finally happens, when everything in his life decides to crackle, blister, and spontaneously combust all at once—Jon is slightly tipsy on expensive champagne and holding onto a salad fork like his life depends on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THREE THINGS! 
> 
> 1\. This chapter just might be the worst of the entire fic. I rewrote it/restructured it three separate times and I might make more revisions as I go, so bear with me. P.S: some angst ahead as we’re diving into the Martell/Targ family dynamic. I cut some scenes when it comes to Rhaegar and Elia but just know that it isn’t all sunshine and daisies between them. 
> 
> 2\. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE SUPPORTIVE COMMENTS/KUDOS! They really mean a lot to me and good feedback helps me get rid of my writer’s block. I’m so glad so many of you like my take on modern!sansa, and I hope you guys love modern!jon just as much.
> 
> 3\. Listen to “How I See it” by Dounia! It really captures Jon and Sansa’s dynamic in the story. If you would be interested in seeing my playlist for this story, drop a comment and I will link it in the next chapter.

When it finally happens, when everything in his life decides to crackle, blister, and spontaneously combust all at once—Jon is slightly tipsy on expensive champagne and holding onto a salad fork like his life depends on it.

“You remember which fork to use, don’t you?”

Aegon sits on his right, speaking from behind a champagne flute. His babysitter for the night. He at least attempts to ask the question with some modicum of patience, and Jon is grateful for that. Usually Rhaenys would be in his place, giving him helpful tips and pointers under her breath, because she was better at these kind of things. But tonight, she sits near the front of the table, as crown Princess, with the Queen and the King. Her sitting anywhere else would cause far too much attention.

Jon nods. His heart is pounding, leaping up into his throat, which is warm from the alcohol he downed in an attempt to calm his nerves. He hadn’t even wanted to _come_ here in the first place, nevermind memorize dinnerware placement. Even taking away the guilt that was burning a hole in his stomach every time he felt Elia’s gaze flit over him, or the determination his father seemed to have to not look at him _once_ , the simple fact of the matter was this: Jon had the social graces of a bull in a china shop.

_(“You’re going to be fine.” Rhaenys had said to him reassuringly, standing behind him in the mirror where he was being fitted for his tux. “You look so handsome.”_

_“I look like an asshole.”_

_“Hey.” Myranda Royce-Lannister scowled, adjusting the lapels of his jacket. “You’re wearing my design.”_

_Jon grinned apologetically. “A well dressed asshole then.”_

_She smirks. “That’s more like it.)_

Nevertheless, he picks up his salad fork.

A small hand halts his movements on his left. Arianne. She wears a smile, but the words she hisses through her teeth are ones of complete and utter bewilderment. “There is soup on your plate, Jon. Do you normally eat soup with a fork?”

Soup had, in fact, miraculously appeared on his plate. When had that gotten there again?

Aegon stifles something that suspiciously sounds like a wheezing laugh. A few looks dart their way. Jon feels his face go red.

“You’re a dick.”

“Oh, definitely..” Aegon concedes, nodding in agreement. “But _you’re_ uptight. Honestly, Jon. You could at least pretend to be having a good time.”

Here’s something Jon has learned from his time in the capital: his older brother almost never exactly says what he actually means.

He says “Not terrible” when he actually means “good job.” He berates you for your choices in hoping that you’ll eventually ask for his opinion. He acts excited for things he doesn’t want to do. In this case, “You need to stop being a Debbie Downer” probably means “I know you’d rather be with Rhaenys than me, rub it in some more why don’t you?”

(His aunt Dany had told Jon this after they got into a fist fight that resulted in a trip to Doctor Pycelle. This was at the beginning of the summer, when he was still a walking talking reminder of how the father Aegon had idolized his whole life dishonored his mother.

“He’s always wanted a brother.”)

“Sorry.” Jon says, and he really means it. “I’ve always been shit at these kind of things.”

“Parties?”

“Human interaction.”

Aegon’s face softens, just the tiniest bit, and he punches Jon in the arm under the table. “You’re going to have to get used to that soon, dude. That’s the territory that comes with being a prince.” 

Fate has a weird way of picking and choosing the moments when and where shit is going to hit the fan.

Fate has never really been fond of Jon.

That much is clear when seconds later, to the ballroom bursts opens in a rush of wind. A plump bald man in a suit comes walking briskly through. While the music doesn’t stop, a hush falls over the crowd, quickly followed by whispers when the man reaches the head table, talking in a low quiet voice. Jon is sitting too far away to hear anything, but he watches the Queen’s lips press into a thin line, the King snarls, and Rhaenys blanches. She looks at him.

She almost looks _scared._

An electronic chime sounds off next to him. Aegon’s phone. And then another. Arianne’s. And then another. His. Soon enough, everyone’s phone was going off, and the virtual quiet was replaced by a ride of murmuring, and a lot of indiscreet glances thrown in their direction. Glances of shock. Curiosity. Horror.

“We should go.” Aegon says.

He knows this is the part where he should ask what the hell is happening, but somehow Jon already knows. Maybe that’s because he always expected the worst to happen, or maybe it’s his heart, thrashing away in his chest, blood draining from his face. _They know. They know._

“Jon.”

That’s the King speaking. That’s his _father_ , standing right in front of him, hand on his shoulder. Actually _talking_ and making eye contact with him. If that isn’t an apocalyptic sign, Jon doesn’t know what is. He looks up.

“Come with me.”

***

**LATEST TRENDING**

**The 20 year old secret: Rhaegar Targaryen parades secret bastard at court right underneath the Queen’s nose—and couldn’t be more obvious about it** **_(via the Westerosi)_ **

**Baby mama drama: King Rhaegar Targaryen welcomes beautiful bouncing 20 year old son into the family from a common northern girl** **_(via King’s Landing daily)_ **

**Everything you need to about Rhaegar Targaryen’s secret bastard: and why he’s come out the woodwork now** **_(via the Baelish Independent)_ **

***

Everything is a blur as soon as they exit the ballroom. The alcohol that coats Jon’s throat to stomach the event leaves his brain buzzing, and the the tide of whispers rising around him leaves his ears ringing. He barely remembers Selmy leading him out of the ballroom, or Rhaenys’ protective reassurances, or Aegon’s uncharacteristic silence, because all he knows is that he’s suddenly sitting in the council chamber with a dozen of other people, watching the King-- _his father_ , throw a temper tantrum.

“I WANT TO KNOW _WHO_ THE FUCK BROKE THE STORY AND I WANT TO KNOW _NOW!_ ”

Jon startles out of his daze just in time to watch everybody flinch in unison at the resounding boom of Rhaegar’s voice. He recognized most of the faces as the ones he had spent the past three months with-- people he felt confident enough to call family or at least cross them off the suspect list. His brother and sister, Daenerys, her pompous brother Viserys, Queen Elia and the rest of the Martells, who had never been outwardly rude to him despite knowing his identity, although it wasn’t a secret they’d like to be rid of him save for Arianne. Others were faces he had only seen this week, but were apparently important enough to be here or had known all along: the PR representative Varys, the Prime minister Tywin Lannister, his son, Jaime. He didn’t know enough about any of them to count them out just yet.

( _Are King’s allowed to curse?)_

“I believe it was the Baelish Independent, your Majesty.” Varys squeaks from the farthest corner away from the king. Sweat beads on his shiny bald head, and Jon nearly feels sorry for him.

“I WANT THEM IN PRISON!”

“I—I don’t think….that’s possible, your Majesty.” He stammers.

“WHY THE HELL NOT?

It is Tywin Lannister who speaks this time. “They aren’t the ones who signed the non-disclosure agreement, your Majesty. It would be violating their freedom of the press.”

Even from behind a TV screen, Jon had always found his cold green eyes unsettling. He was the only one in the room that wasn’t the slightest bit fazed, or if he was, he was doing a great job at not showing it. He could have done it; he had the money to survive a lawsuit the fall out would cause, but Jon had a hard time believing he would. What could he possibly gain from petty gossip that he hadn’t gotten from being to the highest office in the land? Besides a stain on his reputation after shattering the illusion of Westeros’ greatest family?

“Then I want who did.” The king snaps, pacing the length of the room. “I want their _sources_ and I want _them_ thrown in prison.”

It was unsettling, to see his father like this, someone normally so level headed losing control. It sent a chill down his spine, and one look at Rhaenys and Aegon’s shocked, chalky faces, Jon could tell they felt the same too.

But none of it made sense. He was the one who wanted to come clean in the first place when Jon first arrived, just as Varys had advised him. It was Jon who stopped him, thinking of the change it would bring to his life. The change it would bring to the queen’s life.

She was sitting by the window, staring up at the moon, face expressionless. Her brothers flocked her, as if to protect her from everyone in the room, and Arthur Dayne, her personal bodyguard, stood behind her. It was his hand she gripped so tightly.

As if she could feel the weight of his stare, the Queen looks at him. Jon flinches, bracing himself for the pure, unadulterated hatred that he rightfully deserved for ruining a night that was supposed to be about her, but it doesn’t come. There’s nothing. Just hollowness. Emptiness.

He isn’t sure which one is worse.

“They aren’t obligated to reveal them, your grace.” The prime minister informs him.

“THEN GET A FUCKING SUBPOENA!” The King shouts, banging his fists against the table so hard it trembles.

“That would be infringing on their freedom of the press-“

One of the chairs next to the table goes crashing and splintering against the far side of the stone wall. Nearly everyone in the room jumps, including the Queen, breaking from her trance.

But not from fright.

“Leave.”

For a second, Jon nearly thinks she’s talking to him, but not ten seconds later when nobody moves do her eyes flash dangerously, and her voice quickens into steel.

“Am I speaking to myself? Everyone out. _Now._ ”

  


***

His life starts to come apart at the seams in the middle of the Great hall. But it doesn’t start to unravel, not truly, until he storms out of the counsel chambers, without looking back, ignoring Rhaenys and Dany calling after him. His blood is roaring in his ears, and his heart is thrashing against his rib cage, and all of the hurt he had gotten so good at controlling is starting to spill out, spurting guts galore. Everything that could have went wrong tonight did, but of course, of _fucking course,_ the night is still young, and there’s always the opportunity for shit to get worse.

Because when it comes to the Jon Snow and trouble: it always seems to find him.

At every fucking corner. It’s not like he goes _looking_ for it—he’s not even a confrontational person, typically. Not like Robb, or Arya. He’s a thinker. He, at the very least, _thinks_ before doing something stupid. And whenever he does something stupid, it’s very likely that he didn’t have much of a choice.

But he _did_ have a choice.

And that choice is well and made when he ventures further and further away from the party, away from the prying eyes of the aristocratic _vultures_ who would descend without hesitation at the site of him, away from his brother and sister’s pitiful glances, and away from the King and Queen’s shouts, which were getting more distant the longer he kept walking. He is hurting, aching something fierce in his chest and gut, but the alcohol he consumed also numbs him. He wants to make somebody hurt, anybody else _hurt_ , for once, because for the past 20 years, he’s been life’s personal punching bag and just for once, he’d like to be the one doing the punching.

It is alarming, how fast Jon finds what he’s looking for.

Everyone, servant or guest has abandoned the left side of the Keep for the party, leaving nearly every single candle wick unlit and all of the lights shut off. It’s why this is the place he flees to instead of his room, where anyone can easily find him. The silence is deafening, and in that minute, Jon realizes that he’s exactly right back where he started at the beginning of the summer. Angry. Alone.

( _I should have just stayed that way.)_

Outside is even more desolate. There is something untouched and wild about the garden like this, vines and shrubbery spreading over the columns of the gazebo, drenched in moonlight. Not even wind rustles any of the leaves. It’s as if the entire world had been put on mute then. Jon loosens his tie, letting it come undone around his neck, and discards his jacket with it, finally slumping onto the bench. His hands shake as he fishes inside of his pocket to find his Marlboros, and it takes a few tries to light the cigarette.

He could use some quiet.

Perhaps this would be his last moment of it.)

As if fate hears his thoughts, that is when Jon hears _it._

A high pitched, sultry giggle that felt entirely way too wrong in the stilted quiet, and a very low murmur in response. Jon exhales a cloud of smoke, annoyed. There were only a million rooms they could have chosen to do whatever they were doing inside the castle. Yet they decided to be exhibitionists.

_Rich assholes_.

Jon’s briefly considering interrupting them and telling them to leave, and even more seriously considering going back to his room and chancing Rhaenys finding him, when he hears:

“I’m telling you, love. I’ve seen this kind of shit before—guy’s more likely to be a con artist than a prince.”

The voice was deep, and naggingly familiar. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. And even more so, he was calling Jon a _liar._ Like he knew him. Like he had some kind of degree in con artists. Not even taking the fact into consideration that it wasn’t Jon who had exposed himself to the world, it was the _world_ who had exposed him to the world.

_(Maybe if I lie and say I’m a con artist, at the very least I’d get to go home.)_

“I don’t know.” The girl trails off. The kind of pause that only people who are afraid of offending the person they’re having a conversation with. She makes it sound flirty. “I mean...the articles seem pretty legit.”

“Duh.” The Guy scoffs, like she’s stupid for bothering to have a word leave his mouth that didn’t immediately concur with the ones that left his. “He’s obviously not a fucking rookie. Who know how long he’s been planning this shit?”

“True.”

Jon nearly chokes on his smoke from laughing.

To be fair, It seemed like a pretty solid plan, in case he were really that desperate to pay off his student debt. And in one go, he’d also be robbing the rich, so go figure. But it had far too many technicalities to ever actually work in anything but a soap opera. The royal family was far too high profile for at least one person claiming to be a long lost something or other to pop up out of the woodwork, and therefore, extensively vetted the person in question. Rhaenys had told him that it was exactly what their father did, before allowing her to make contact with him. They obviously didn’t find anything, if Jon was able to remain in the capital all summer.

“My grandfather says those kinds of people are willing to do anything except actual work to earn money.” The guy says in disgust. “His whore mother probably put him up to it before she kicked the bucket.”

Jon’s cigarette slips from his hand and onto the pavement.

“What did you just say?”

He doesn’t even remember standing up, and pivoting to them, nor does he remember forming the words in his mouth before saying them. Just feels his heart thrashing away in his rib cage, and the grind of the cigarette under his loafer. He digs the toe into the concrete until nothing remains but ash and a filter. Once it is over, he has nothing left to keep his hands from balling up into fists.

The guy and the girl jump apart at the sound of another voice. She wears a server’s uniform, slightly unbuttoned in the front, but the boy is unmistakably a guest, and again, strangely familiar. It was something about his face, his stupid, perfectly symmetrical face, which didn’t seem the least bit worried at his presence, not like the girl’s, whose eyes widened like saucers. Only annoyed. “Excuse me?”

“I think you heard me just fine.”

The guy barks out a laugh that is all snide and dismissal. But Jon thinks he sees something in those green eyes. Fear? Excitement? “See what I mean? Only criminals make a habit of lurking in the dark.”  


The girl does nothing to show that she agrees with him. In fact, she looks like she’d rather be anywhere else than this conversation. She says nothing.

“You don’t know me.” Jon bites out. “You definitely don’t know my mother.”

“Is that what’s upset you?” The guy tilts his head to the side. Like this was all entertainment to him. “That I called your mother a whore?”

Jon tries to count to ten, tasting the anger rising in the back of his throat, tart and metallic—

He makes it to three. “I’m warning you—”

“And where do you get off doing that?” Another laugh. Another smug, shit eating, I could easily get away with first degree murder laugh. It’s not fear in those eyes. This guy doesn’t have a shred of self preservation in him, not like his girl does, who’s slowly backing away.

“Joff—” She begins, voice high, pulling on his arm.

The guy holds up a hand, and she falls silent immediately.

“I’m a Lannister of Casterly Rock.” He boasts with patronizing condescension. “The prime minister’s grandson. You don’t get to tell me anything. I don’t have to lie for money, or anything else I want.”

_The prime minister’s grandson._

And in that moment, Jon knows this is a fight he can’t possibly win. Even now, even as a bastard of arguably the most powerful men in the world, he was still without the upper hand, because there would always be someone higher than him. And unfortunately, in this moment in time, this kid was it.

It makes his blood _boil_.

But he unclenches his fist. Breathes through his nose and out through his mouth repeatedly. He’s about to just turn around, and walk away, but he can’t, because Joffrey Lannister, for being as rich and powerful as he claims to be, does not know when to shut the _hell up._

“I’ll tell you what: tell me how you pulled it off, and I’ll reward. Considerably.” Joffrey drawls, pulling out his wallet.

_One….three...five_

_“_ How is it that you and your druggie whore of a mother managed it?”

Jon doesn’t even remember moving.

Doesn’t even remember the first punch. Or the second. He’s seeing red, blind with rage and knuckles smacking into the bone of Joffrey’s perfect Lannister nose and he hears that satisfying _crack_ , feels the gush of blood on his fingers and the punch he receives at his mouth is embarrassingly _dainty_ and if he weren’t so angry he’d laugh, but that simmering fury in his gut doesn’t go away, and his face is _wet_ —is it blood? Is it tears? He doesn’t know just that—

This might have been a fight Jon couldn’t win but that doesn’t stop him from fucking _trying._

***

“What _happened_?”

This time, Jon does flinch at the harshness of his father’s voice, because the alcohol has worn off and there is no mistaking the fact that it is directed at him. He had been undoubtedly angry before, but now, he was _livid,_ and there is nobody else in the room to take it but him.

Fair enough.

“I’ll tell you what happened.” Cersei Baratheon seethes, equally furious. Her green eyes are as cold as ice and pin him down to the spot. “My son was _attacked—_ ”

“He started it.” Jon interjects heatedly.

The helpless lamb in question was sitting as far away from Jon in the room as he could possibly could, cowering behind his mother and avoiding Jon’s gaze at all cost. He looks like shit. His left eye is almost swollen shut, and his nose is bandages heavily. His busted lip had to be sewed together. Jon feels a strong sense of triumph at the sight of his face.

He would _not_ be apologizing.

“Let’s not go around pointing fingers just yet.” Tywin Lannister says.

That shocks Jon more than anything. He would have expected the prime minister to be as equally up in arms as his ex daughter in law. Enraged. He had heard the tales, that no one who went up against a Lannister survived with their reputation intact, yet here was, acting as peacekeeper. If anything, he seemed irritated.

In fact, that could have described everyone else in the room at that moment.

Robert Baratheon, Cersei’s husband and the Kong’s cousin sat hunched over in a chair, red faced and cracking his knuckles. Joffrey’s father, Jaime Lannister, the world renowned retired boxer and ex Kingsguard leans against the wall, managing to look furious and bored all at once. Myranda stands beside her husband, arms intertwined with his and expressionless, running her thumb over his knuckles absentmindedly, maybe in an attempt to calm him. When she catches Jon looking at her, her lips twitch, and she actually mouths: _Nice._

At least he had one ally in the room.

“Pointing fingers?” Cersei bleats, and goes to do just that at Jon. “The _boy_ was found on top of our Joffrey like an animal. That’s plenty of evidence enough for me.”

“Do you have any witnesses that can attest to this?” Queen Elia asks.

That is the last person Jon expects to take up for him in anything, but there she was, standing behind Rhaegar and doing just that. She had been the one to send Doctor Pycelle up to his rooms to clean him up.

Jon doesn’t know what to make of any of it.

“The servant.” Cersei says quickly. “Alayaya. I will send for her immediately—”

“That won’t be necessary.” Rhaegar says coolly, and nods at Selmy who stands at the entrance. “Find her.”

In less than ten minutes, Alayaya shuffles into the room, eyes red rimmed and tucking her dark hair behind her nervously. She gives Joffrey a horrified look but the one she gives Jon is much more frightened. He flushes with shame. He hadn’t ever wanted her to think he was gonna hurt her.

“I am told that you were a witness to the events that transpired tonight.” Rhaegar walks out from behind the desk until he is right in front of Alayaya. He puts a hand on her shoulder. She trembles. “Tell me what you saw.”

Jon resists the urge to push him back from her. He knew an intimidation tactic when he saw one, and the girl was already scared out of her mind. But he feels a pinch at the back of his arm, and looks up to find Elia looming over him, left arm draped over the back of his chair.

Quiet, Her brown eyes seem to be saying, _beseeching,_

Jon acquiesces.

“I’m not sure.” Alayaya murmurs, chin ducked. “It all happened so fast.”

“Liar!” Joffrey shouts, voice cracking.

“Silence, boy.” Tywin snaps. “Not another word out of your mouth.”

“Is that what you’re doing, Alayaya?” Rhaegar continues, voice deceptively soft. “You’re a smart girl. You know better than to lie to your king, don’t you?”

“No! No! I swear!” She stammers quickly, tears in her eyes. “I didn’t...I didn’t see anything. I’m sorry.”

“Well.” Elia says. Her grip on Jon’s chair loosens. He realizes that it’s exactly the answer they wanted to hear. “That’s not very definitive, is it?”

Alayaya wilts. “I’m sorry I can’t be more of a help, your Grace.”

“That’s quite alright. Thank you for your honesty.” Rhaegar says. “Selmy. See her to her car.”

Upon leaving, Alayaya takes one more glance back at Jon. Cersei glares holes into her back, and that feeling of helplessness crawls up his throat. If anything bad happened to her...it would be his fault. His and his family’s.

“It’s clear that both of them were forceful with each other.” The Prime minister declares after a moment, clearing his throat. “It was a boy’s scuffle, nothing more.”

He’s settling, Jon realizes, mouth nearly falling open. He’s settling because he knows he can’t win.

Or because he knows it wouldn’t be worth it. Lannister’s and Targaryens at each other’s throats in the public, when they were supposed to be the stellar example of the Crown and parliament working together for the good of Westeros. With them at odds, the whole country would fall apart in hours.

“Exactly.” Robert Baratheon forces out a chuckle. “We had plenty of those growing up, didn’t we cousin? Boys will be boys.”

“Boys will be boys?” Cersei hisses. Her face is slowly starting to redden, just like her husband’s. “His nose is _broken_ in two places. His lip is busted. He’s missing a _tooth_.”

Jon winces.

(He still wasn’t sorry.)

“I understand your distress Mrs. Baratheon.” Rhaegar says, spearing Jon with a sharp look. “And we are more than willing to pay for any medical and cosmetic expenses to remedy this.”  


“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary, your Grace.” Tywin nods humbly. “We—”

“You’re damn right it won’t be necessary.”

The tension in the room that ensues is so thick, you could cut it with a knife. Myranda’s eyes are wide. Jaime Lannister is so obviously trying hard not to smirk. Robert Baratheon sighs a long suffering sigh, and lets his face fall in his hands, and even punk ass Joffrey looks surprised, because—

Even though Jon was pretty new around here, he knew that no one ever interrupted Tywin Lannister. Nevermind insulted the King in the same breath.

Cersei charges on, nonetheless. Undaunted, bold, and angry. She points at Jon. “I want him punished. He mutilated my son. Where is my justice?”

A muscle in Rhaegar’s jaw ticks.

“My son is by no means a violent person, Mrs. Baratheon. If he attacked Joffrey, it was only after being provoked.”

_(My son.)_

_(He’s never called me that before.)_

_(He believes me.)_

“What does that matter?” Cersei demands. “He nearly killed him. Who knows what would have happened had the Kingsguard not come?”

“It is a good thing we’ll never know then.” Tywin interjects.

She presses her mouth so thin that it nearly disappears. Rage makes her body shake, as she glares at all of them. But Rhaegar is who gets the brunt of it. Cersei lifts her chin up, and says, “I would like to press charges.”

Charges, Jon thinks numbly.

“ _Charges_?” Elia echoes, aghast. “This is ridi—

“I don’t think so.” Cersei cuts off triumphantly. “I have _plenty_ of cause for assault and battery. My ex husband has only the best lawyers at his disposal, and will use each and every one—”

Jaime barks out a laugh. “I will do no such thing.”

“Excuse me?” She gasps.

It is the king who Jaime turns to in that moment, leaving his ex wife forgotten. He gestures to Joffrey. “I am no stranger to my son’s behavior, your Grace. He’s a pampered little shit with a history of altercations like this. I have no interest in defending his actions any longer. I can only hope your son knocked some sense into mine.”

If Joffrey weren’t already black and blue, Jon thinks he’d be the color of a tomato.

Myranda snorts, and that is who Cersei turns her wrath on next.

“How dare you? Turning a father against his son? Do you have any shame at all?”

“Have you ever considered that not every single bad thing that happens to you is not my fault?” Myranda drawls. “Or that maybe, just maybe, Joffrey truly is a pampered little shit?”  


“Enough.” Tywin booms. His eyes are like chips of green ice, and in that moment, Jon is extremely glad he isn’t Cersei Baratheon. “Stop this foolishness, Cersei. You are embarrassing yourself.”

“I am standing up for my son.” She retorts. “If you choose not to help me do so, me and my husband’s resources will do just fine.”

Robert grimaces. “I really don’t think there’s a need for that.”

“I suggest you listen to my cousin, Cersei.”

It is not the voice of a placating, understanding parent who speaks now, but a king. Rhaegar’s face is cold, and closed off, and his voice is flat. Uninviting. Unwelcoming. Dangerous.

Like mother, like son. She appears to have no preservation for herself, and once again, fixes to open her mouth, only to be interrupted.

“In the span of a five minutes, you have called a prince of the seven kingdoms a liar, an animal, and a felon.I’d think very carefully on what I’d say next if I were you.”

Every word Cersei fixes to say dies on her lips.

Rhaegar smiles. “Good. Here’s what will happen: I won’t charge your son with the assault of Prince Jon. on the condition that not a word of this gets out to the press. I will forgive you and your son’s disrespect towards me and the rest of my family, and allow you to come back to court. My offer to pay for Joffrey’s medical expenses still stands.”

She does not reply. Jon has not known her for very long, but it wouldn’t be such a stretch to surmise that a speechless Cersei Lannister is as rare as a four leaf clover.

Tywin bows. “That sounds more than fair, your Grace.”  


***

Once the Lannisters leave, and the door has finally shut behind Jaime, it does not take long for Rhaegar to become unhinged for the second time that night.

“What in the seven hells were you _thinking_?”

It would be easier to lie: _I wasn’t._ But Jon knew he had to take responsibility for this. “He called me a liar. He called my mom a whore and a drug addict—”

“WORDS?” The King bellows. “You let that coward get the best of you with a few _words_ ? Grow the _fuck_ up, Jaehaerys.”

_Grow the fuck up._

_Grow the fuck up._

Jon hadn’t been a kid since he was 14.

He had more memories of his mother being sick than he had memories of her being well and happy. He helped her take her meds, and sat by the toilet all night while she threw up. He helped her shave her head, and spent countless holidays for the next four years inside the hospital. He worked two jobs: one in pizza delivery and another at the ice cream place just to be able to buy a car so he wouldn’t have to rely on Ned all of the time, and he’s cried so much over the years, he’s probably ran out of tears by now—

Grow the fuck up.

He didn’t know the half of it.

“Rhaegar.” Elia warns quietly.

“No. I have tried with him—I have _tried_ with you.” He points a finger at Jon. “I have welcomed you into my home, I have given you what you wanted! I _knew_ it was a bad idea to keep your identity under wraps, and I wanted to get in front of it before the press did—”

“So that’s my fault too?” Jon fires back, something like volcanic rage simmering in his gut. “I wanted time to get used to a life and a family that I knew nothing about up until six months ago, and that’s _my_ fault? Ever heard of a _fucking_ adjustment period?”

“There is _adjusting_ —” He says, stalking from around his desk. “And there is _dragging your feet._ I have been far too lenient with you, Jaehaerys. Tonight is just proof of that.”

“ _Lenient?”_ Jon spits. “You can’t even look at me on a good day. The moment things go wrong, you lay all of your fucking problems on me. What’s the matter, _Dad?_ I look too much like her for you? After all these years, you still can’t face up to your mistakes?”

Rhaegar’s face darkens. “If I couldn’t, do you think you would be here?”

And that _hurts._

Maybe more than anything else that’s happened tonight. It’s a blow to the gut that nearly knocks all of the wind out of him. Jon staggers back. The blood that was running hot in his veins, roaring in his ears, is now cold. Everything feels cold.

Something flashes across his face. Regret? Sorrow? Pain? Jon doesn’t know. Can’t even take a moment to dissect it because of the sickly feeling that comes with looking at him. Before he can say anything else, Elia steps between them.

“ENOUGH!” She shouts, with a hand on Jon’s shoulder to keep him back. “Before you say something that you regret.”

If Jon says something, says what he really wants to say, he’ll mean every single word of it. _I hate you. I wish you left me the fuck alone. I wish it were you instead of mom. I’d trade three of you for her, in a heartbeat._

But Jon’s chest is too tight, and he’s afraid that if he says anything else, he’ll just cry.

“Whatever.” He mutters, biting on his lip until he tastes blood.

And then he leaves.

***

  


By the time Jon makes it up to his room, it’s impossible to keep it all in.

Here is something Jon has learned about himself:

He is spectacularly bad at letting himself feel.

Pain. Happiness. Mere fucking contentment. He can’t do any of it, because in the back of his mind, he knows that it’s all temporary, that eventually, it’ll all disappear before he can blink. But for one second, he had allowed himself to just _be_ and _live_ , not thinking about the consequences, or what would come after—and look where it’s gotten him.

On his knees in his room, choking back anger and disbelief and sadness and everything. His throat is starting to close up uncomfortably; it’s getting hard to breath. Jon pushes open the window, but the humid air that washes over his skin doesn’t give him any relief. He hears his mother’s voice distantly:

_Count to ten, love. Breathe. Breathe._

His phone rings in his pocket. Jon fumbles for it, to at least turn it off, because it’s probably some reporter calling for comment or Rhaenys to chew him out for ditching her, but he catches a glimpse of the caller ID, and without a second’s delay, he answers. “Arya?”

He realizes all too late how pathetic he sounds, with his voice cracking half way through and his voice a little bit hoarse, and he’s about to hang up because a minute long silent stretches on afterwards, but Arya answers. She speaks.

“You need to breathe.”

_She knew. She always knew._

“I’m not—I can’t—”

“You can.” Arya insists gently. “You _will._ Breathe, Jon. Breathe with me, alright?”

_In. Out._ Ridiculously big inhales and exhales that make him feel a little less light headed every time he does it. Her breath at the end of the line sets the pace, brings him back. Acts as his anchor.

“Cool?” She asks him.

“...yeah.” The lump in his throat is still at large, but his chest doesn’t feel so tight anymore. His hands don’t shake. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

It strikes Jon suddenly how alike Arya and Aegon are in their mannerisms. He’s known her long enough to know that “Don’t be stupid” also means “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I mean I’m sorry for not telling you.”

“You should have.” For a split second, her voice goes hard and angry. But she sighs. “I would have told told you not to wear that suit,”

Jon feels the slightest smile sneak up onto his face. “My suit?”

“You looked like an asshole.”

He laughs, and on the phone, Arya giggles a little too. When was the last time he had heard that? Talked to her on the phone like this? He didn’t deserve this from her. He truly neglected her this summer.

“I don’t know what to do, Arya.” He says softly. “Tell me what to do.”

And here is something he’s learned about Arya Stark:

She is astonishingly blunt.

She is the only person Jon trusts to tell him like it is rather than spare his feelings. She will comfort him afterwards, no doubt, but she doesn’t do sugar coating of any kind. It makes her one of the best people he’s ever known.

“There’s only one thing you can do.” She says. “Come home.”

***

Home.

Home is not his dingy studio apartment in Barrowtown.

It is not that sad, lumpy mattress on the floor without a box spring, or the old, chipped cherrywood dresser he’d gotten at some flea market a week after he moved into town, nor is it all of the comics he had collected over the years in the corner, which were now collecting dust because he hadn’t touched them as often as he had touched his school books, and he reached for those just about as often as he reached for his cigarettes—

Home is Wintertown.

Home is that dive bar in Queenscrown Robb and Theon always used to get booked at for shows, and home is the diner they used go afterwards that was around the corner to try to pick up girls. Home is stargazing in the front yard with Bran, going hiking with Arya, and playing soccer with Rickon. Home is the tug of a red ponytail, blue eyes the color of the sky, and the most delicate sneer of “As _if_ —”

That’s home.

And home sounds really fucking good right about now.

***

Breakfast the next morning is an unbearable affair.

When Jon arrives, he makes a point of choosing the seat furthest away from his father. Not that that was out of the norm, as it was usually Rhaenys and Elia who sat on either side of him. But this morning was different, as everyone in the world officially knew who he was, and his entire family knew what had transpired with the Lannisters last night.

Rhaenys frowns disapprovingly at him as he takes his seat, but slightly softens at the blooming bruise on his chin, but Aegon only grins.

“Morning, Rambo.”

“Egg.” Elia glares at him.

He raises his eyebrows innocently. “Too soon?”

The rest of the meal doesn’t fare much better. Dany, bless her heart, attempts to diffuse the attention with talk of her future goodwill trip to Astapor, and Rhaenys graciously asks questions in all of the right places to keep the conversation going. Viserys is on the phone, talking to some brown nosing ambassador or other, while Elia quietly sips her orange juice, doing the crossword and the King is making his relation to Jon apparent by all the brooding he’s doing into his omelet.

It’s not really the best time to broach the topic, but Jon would be damned if he stayed here any longer unwanted.

“I think it’s time for me to go home.”

There’s a clatter of silverware against ceramic as his words sink in. Rhaenys looks hurt, Aegon looks furious, Dany looks confused, and Elia is as unreadable as ever. But none of them speak.

“Home?” Rhaegar prompts blithely.

“My godfather, he offered me a job at his law firm up north.” Jon resolves to stare into those lilac colored eyes. He wasn’t scared, and he wouldn’t let his father think he was.

Viserys laughs. “A job?”

Jon bristles. “Yes. What’s wrong with that?”

“You’re a prince.” Aegon bites out, incredulous. “You don’t _need_ a job.”

“That’s not all I want to be,”

(The way Aegon flinches is nearly imperceptible.)

“No,” Rhaegar agrees, forking a piece of omelet with maybe a little too much force. “But it is what you will remain.”

Jon blinks. “What?”

“A prince, I mean.” He says, voice barely above a whisper. “That is who you are. That is who you were born to be, even if neither of us knew it. It’s time for you to start acting like one.”

“What,” Jon pauses for a minute, willing himself to catch his breath, to think before he says something that will do irreparable damage. “does that have to do with me going home?”

“You’re already home. You’re a prince of the seven kingdoms, and that is your job. Maybe you should master this one before moving on to another so quickly.”

“I’m two semesters away from getting my bachelor’s degree.” Jon ground out. “I’ve been studying for the LSAT’s all summer. A job at Ned’s firm could really—”

“Apparently I’m not making myself clear.” Rhaegar says stiffly. “I’ll hear no more talk about this job at Stark’s firm. College can wait. Your duties cannot.”

And Gods.

It doesn’t make sense, any of it. After all that transpired last night, Rhaegar was going to force him to stay. After lecturing him about how terrible of a prince he was, after all but telling him he wished that he was never born, he was going to make him _stay_ in this hellhole. And for what? To punish him? To torture him? It sure as hell wasn’t to get to know him, or because he cares about Jon’s happiness.

Fuck that.

“My duties have only existed for three months.” Jon says. “My dreams have been here a lot longer. I’m not _abandoning_ them just to stroke your ego.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath. Viserys chokes on his cinnamon roll and Elia sighs, folding her newspaper back up. Rhaenys watches wide eyed and Aegon can’t seem to remember to pick up his jaw. But most of all, they’re all quiet. None of them take up for him. Try to argue for him. They just watch.

“Funny.” Rhaegar says. “As it’s your bruised ego making you run home like a coward, is it not?”

“No. I just don’t think I can stand to be around you any longer.”

It’s there again, that brief flicker of hurt across his face, and again, Jon refuses to spend any time discerning it. He lets his fork drop to his plate, and leaves the table without much of a preamble.

“I haven’t given you permission to leave.” Rhaegar raises his voice, and it echoes in the hall, but Jon does not flinch like the rest.

“I’ll take it anyway.”

***

Just to be clear—

Jon’s positive that the words “The Queen would like a word with you” are something nobody wants to hear.

But in his case, it’s about 1000 times worse than it should be, considering the fact that he’s a product of his father’s infidelity that took place during their marriage, and that this detail happened to be revealed to the world during her extremely public birthday celebration, and then went on to punch the prime minister’s grandson in the face at said extremely public birthday celebration—

It wouldn’t be such a stretch to assume that Elia Martell wasn’t his biggest fan.

Yet even still, she had never been outwardly unkind to him during all his stay in King’s Landing. Just distant. Tolerant. She had given him a room with a view of Blackwater Bay because Rhaenys had told her that he liked water, and had suits tailored for all of the events he was dragged to as a plus one, and then there was last night, after his altercation with Joffrey Lannister, the way she had looked out for him then—it was kind. It was unprecedented.

That didn’t mean Jon wasn’t still supremely nervous walking into the garden a few hours into the afternoon. He had spent a majority of the day avoiding Rain and Egg, with the way they hadn’t even looked out for him at the dinner table, and he couldn’t even hang out with Arianne, as her and Willas were having dinner with Mace Tyrell to explain why they were pushing back the wedding days the millionth time. He’s spent all day shoving his shit into the beaten up leather brown duffel he had arrived into the capital with, until Dayne showed up at his door with a summons from the Queen.

Elia sits near a rose bush, book propped open in her lap and nose downturned in it thoughtfully. At the sight of him, she shuts it, handing it off to her other bodyguard, Whent, and stands up with a kind smile that she usually reserved for others. “Walk with me, Jon.”  


He feels compelled to comply.

“You upset your father quite a bit this morning.” She says, not like she wants to chastise him, but merely wants to inform him.

Jon scoffs. “I’ve been really good at that, lately. Upsetting people, I mean.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it.” Elia squeezes his arm. “You are not so much trouble, you know.”

Not so much trouble? After all that had happened in the last seen 24 hours?

“I ruined your party.” Jon pointed out. “I embarrassed you.”  


“It was...naïve of us to think we could contain it for so long.” She sighs, shaking her head. “I can’t blame you for that. You were exposed, just as I was.”

“I punched the prime minister’s grandson in the face.”  


“Not your finest moment, I’ll admit.” Elia winces, but then smiles a little all the same. “But even Jaime said he needed a good punching.”

Jon’s lips twitch. “It was a really good punching.”

Elia laughs. It is a warm sound that envelops him like a fluffy blanket. In this whole time he had been here, he had never really seen her laugh. It makes her look exactly like Rhaenys.“So I saw.”

But that moment, it is over as soon as it came. The mirth in her smile fades, and the Queen is back. “Did you mean what you said earlier? When you said you wanted to go home?”  


_So that’s what this is about. This morning._

Jon cannot think of a good enough reason to lie to her. So he doesn’t. “Yes.”

“Why?”

He furrows his eyebrows. “What?”

“Rhaenys tells me you haven’t been home in two years.” Elia says. “ Why now? If you don’t mind me asking?”

_Why now?_

It was a fair question.

If only Jon knew where to begin.

Yes, he had left for _reasons,_ chief among those reasons was that everywhere he went he saw his mother. Felt her absence so acutely. Each breath he took became another one he took without _her._ The world was continuing to turn, the seasons were continuing to change, but as long as Jon was there, he’d never be able to move on.

He finally moved on.

It took time. Hair cuts. A significant amount of throwing himself into school work and working himself to the bone at the mechanic garage until he could finally sleep without thinking of her. He doesn’t look at her picture as much as he used to, as it’s tucked at the bottom of one of his many boxes that he’s had yet to unpack for the past year—

(It’s not so much moving on as it is avoiding.)

(It all feels the same to him.)

But now he’s tired.

Jon is two years older, and exhausted. He’s lost, without any idea of what the fuck to do, and the only place he’s ever felt at peace was at home. “I need time...to think.”

“It’s wearing on the soul, when you haven’t been home in a long time.” Elia twists the ring on her finger, smiling wryly. “That is something my husband and children will never understand. King’s Landing is the only home they’ve ever known.”

Jon tries to picture it for a moment; growing up in a city like this. With all of the clutter, the horror, the lies, the stink. Keeping him away from it might have been the best thing his mother ever did for him. “I can’t even imagine.”

“Me either.”

He watches her go somewhere then, leave the present. He wonders if she’s in Dorne, basking in the glow of the Water Gardens. Arianne made it seem like it was the happiest place on earth. How long had it been since she was home? How weary was her soul because of it?

“I will speak with your father.” Elia clears her throat, startling out of her reverie. “See what I can do about convincing him to let you go home.”  


(He also got restless waiting for the people he loved most in the world to kick him to the curb,

_Home._

There was still a chance he could make it there after all.

A seedling of hope is planted in his chest, but Jon guards it carefully. He knows he should be thanking her, a million times over, but his summer in the capital has jaded him, and all he can say is: “Why?”

Elia quirks an eyebrow. “I don’t even know whether I should bother to answer that question. You seem to believe you already know the answer.”

And Jon isn’t stupid.

He knows that him leaving the capital would give Elia what she had before. Her family would be back to the way it was. The reminder of her husband’s infidelity wouldn’t be walking around. She wouldn’t need to be embarrassed.

“Contrary to what you believe, you staying in King’s Landing would make my life considerably easier.” Elia admits. “Rhaegar is much more amenable when he gets what he wants. Rain and Egg would be happy that you’d officially be apart of the family. With time, the scandal of it all would blow over, and I’d become the benevolent queen that welcomed her step son home with open arms, and put a crown on his head...blah blah blah, very story book, don’t you think?”

She turns to meet his eyes. The smile she wears this time is heartbreakingly sad. A bit reminiscent of the one Ned gave to him when Jon told him he’d be leaving.

“But that’s not you.” She says. “You love them, Dany, Rain, and Egg, but you hate it here because you were not raised for it. You were not raised to attend frivolous dinner parties, and manipulate pretty noble ladies and sign your life away in service of the crown. That is not you. It wouldn’t be fair to expect it of you now.”  


And Jon is speechless.

Speechless that this woman who he’s hurt so much by existing could be so understanding towards him, so kind, when she didn’t _have_ to be. Continuing to step in for him and help him just because she thought he needed it. “I thought you hated me.”  


“Never. Loathed you? Maybe once.” Elia confesses. “But I know that how you came into this world isn’t your fault. The people who are to blame for that…I can’t hate them forever. I am only getting older.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon stammers apologetically. “I shouldn’t have assumed the w—”  


“It’s fine.” Elia interrupts. “It means you’ve learned something from this trash heap of a city. Always expect the worst. Just not from me next time.”

“Thank you, your Grace.” Jon says, and for the second time all day, he is truly hopeful. “I don’t know—how can I ever—”  


“Love them.”

“What?”

“Your siblings. Dany. Your father.” Jon’s face must have shown exactly what he thought of the latter, because she sighs knowingly. “I know it might not always seem like it, but he only wants to do what he thinks is best for you.”  


How do you stand by him, after all he’s done? How do you defend him? How do you even care about him? It’s extraordinary to Jon, Elia Martell’s capacity to forgive. To care.

“He sure has a funny way of showing it.” He mumbles instead, fighting against the tightness in his throat.

“Mutual understanding doesn’t come overnight.”

Jon laughs bitterly. “It feels like I’ll never understand him.”

“Oh believe me.” Elia says. ”I know the feeling.”

***

  


Arrangements are made. Jon later on learns that none of them are negotiations.

He would leave on the last week of August, quietly and without any fanfare, with one personal guard of his father’s choosing, completely brand new and unknown by the public as members of the Kingsguard, and another hired by Ned. They would accompany him everywhere and anywhere, no exceptions. School, work, the bathroom, you name it.

_(“Is this really necessary?” He asked after being introduced to decidedly conspicuous Bronn, who apparently used to work for the Lannisters, and Jory, the northern guard._

_The king glares at him. “Do you want to go or not?”_ )

Under no circumstances was Jon to leave the Stark house until the fall semester started on the second of September. They didn’t want anyone more than who was immediately on a need to know basis that Jon was staying in Wintertown until there was absolutely no avoiding it any longer. That would also give them time to move his things from Barrowtown down to his secure location in Wintertown, a small Targaryen estate owned by his father’s great Uncle something or other Aemon, who pretty much lived in seclusion save for his live in nurse, Gilly. From there, he’d be able to commute to work and school pretty easily.

( _“House arrest? Seriously?” He snapped, to which Rhaegar only shrugged._

_“If you stayed here, you could go wherever you’d like_.”)

And finally, all of this was purely a trial run to see if Jon could handle it. In December, he’d have to come back for his coronation anyway, but he’d also be coming back to report to his father, and take on more Princely responsibilities along with law school.

( _“If you’re gonna screw around, I’d rather have you do it under my nose, like your brother and getting something done.” Rhaegar said flatly. “Don’t make me pull you back here._ )

But aside from that threat lingering over his head everything was going great.

Which was to say...not.

Aegon refused to come near him, beyond pissed that he’s actually going through with the deal and it troubles him, but Rhaenys says he’ll come around eventually. She, at least, takes whatever time with him she can get. Most of the time, they’re accompanied by Arianne and Dany, and once, Myranda, right before she left for Casterly Rocky. Now that Jon’s identity is known by everyone, they have don’t have to be as secretive with their whereabouts. Paparazzi trail them everywhere, and while Jon will never get used to being in the public eye, cameras flashing around him becomes so commonplace that he isn’t so shocked by it anymore.

As good as Arianne, Rhaenys, and Dany are for company, they’re also really annoying, and ultimately very unhelpful when it comes to problem solving.

And Jon had a really big fucking problem.

They’re out of the Red Keep on his last day there, strolling around the city, and specifically the shops. The one cool thing Jon has discovered from being a prince? No traffic or bustling commerce of any form, whatsoever. Their bodyguards had this entire half of downtown shut down, just so the King’s family could shop without having to worry about being stalked by the paparazzi, and of course, lines. Normally, he’d refuse this, as it was blatantly classist and unfair to the people who wanted to shop as well, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

And desperate was probably way too kind.

“What about this?”  


Arianne holds up an oversized hot pink sweatshirt with King’s Landing on it in block letters. It looks like it was made from the cheap ass t shirt making site that Theon used for band merch.

“What?” Arianne blinks. “Girls like pink, no?”

“You’re terrible at this.” Rhaenys laughs.

Arianne shrugs in response. “It’s what I would get my sister.”

“Good thing you don’t have any.” Dany mutters.

“She’s not my sister.” Jon says feels compelled, to point out because it’s _true._

Here is another truth Jon has learned when it comes to Sansa Stark:

She is too close to perfect.

It has everything to do with her looks—eyes the color of a sunny afternoon sky, endless waves of red, and a pretty, blemishless, oval face—but nothing to do with them at all, because even without them, she would still be _Sansa._ She would still sing her favorite song and dance like nobody’s watching. She would still make sure her father went to bed at a reasonable time, and doodle random little thank you notes for Old Nan for packing their lunches. She would still read Bran and Rickon bedtime stories and make an attempt to do Arya’s hair before school. She would still have the biggest smile when someone noticed her shoes or complimented her outfit, and her _laugh—_ Jon’s positive it would still sound like music, and that’s—

Disturbing.

_That’s_ what that is.

Because even her flaws, even the things about her that irritate him to no end are still things he likes all the same. Her flagrant disregard for World News, the look of distaste she manages to give his piece of shit Jeep _every time_ she sees it, the little smirk she wears when Robb or Ned chooses her side over his, and the positively haughty way she tosses her hair over her shoulder after she says “ _As if_ .” If it were any other person who did these things, Jon ordinarily wouldn’t give them the time of day, but it’s _Sansa._

And for some reason, he always finds himself making time for her.

Like in this stupid fucking gift shop.

“What kind of things does she like? This…Sansa?” Dany asks.

“Uh…” Clothes. Designer clothes. Books. Trashy reality TV. “Pretty things.”

“Wow.” Dany huffs. “That _sure_ narrows it down.”

“You could just say you forgot.” Arianne supplies.

Jon snorts. “She’d never let me live that down.”

Not only was Sansa the only person he knew that could hold a mean grudge (passive aggressively, of course) besides Arya, but Jon also knew that disappointing her was out of the question. Annoying her? Sure. Bothering her until she gave him attention? That was one of his favorite past times. But actually making her upset, possibly making her _cry_ because she thought he’d forgotten her gift, while somehow remembering everyone else’s? He’d prefer literal death to that, thanks.

The store adjacent to the one they’re in seems more up her alley, if Jon’s being truthful. It’s some kind of boutique, with more accessories and actual clothes than cheap tourist shit. There was even a counter full of fancy necklaces and rings that he could definitely imagine her wearing. “What about over here?”

_“Jewelry?”_ Dany says from behind him.

“What’s wrong with jewelry?”

When he doesn’t get an answer right away, he looks up to find his Rhaenys, Dany, and Arianne exchanging a _look._ He doesn’t know exactly what the look means but he knows a _look_ when he sees one. It’s actually pretty unnerving, watching them all do it at once, and then have the nerve to turn it on _him._

“Okay now I _have_ to see what she looks like.” Rhaenys declares, putting her hands on her hips.

Jon feels his cheeks heat up. “Why does that matter?”

“Because _boys_ only buy girls jewelry when they want to have sex with them.” Arianne declares.

_Laid._

“I don’t—I don’t want to _hook up_ with her.” He splutters, mouth flapping open and shut like he’s some kind of stupid fish. “She’s not—she’s...Sansa. That’s ridiculous.”

“I’ll say!” Rhaenys snaps. “This entire Summer, I thought I was helping you get over a broken heart by setting you up with a _number_ of outstanding women—”

“Nobody asked you to do that!” Jon retorted.

(He honestly hadn’t. He had tried to explain to his sister in several occasions that he was completely fine on his own after Ygritte, but she hasn’t listened.)

(She _rarely_ ever listens.)

“—Only for you to have some secret _girlfriend_ —”  


“She isn’t my _girlfriend._ ” Jon interrupts. “We’re not even _friends._ She’s practically family.”

“But you _just_ said she wasn’t your sister.” Dany pointed out.

“That doesn’t mean I want to hook _up_ with her!”

And he _doesn’t._

But the thing is.

The thing _is._

Jon has eyes, and he’s fucking seen some shit in his short, 20 years of life. He’s seen, and experienced, and interacted with enough girls to impartially conclude that no one of them would ever come close to Sansa Stark. So yeah, he’s pretty much accepted that as a universal truth by now, but in the way a nutritionist looks at a food pyramid. Pure scientific fact.

When he’s hungry, he doesn’t eat the fucking food pyramid.

Because he’s _known_ the food pyramid for more than half of his life. He respects the food pyramid. He appreciates the food pyramids vices and virtues. Sometimes, when the food pyramid laughs, his stomach flips the tiniest bit. He might, in theory, _think_ about the food pyramid in ways he definitely shouldn’t from time to time, but he’ll never fucking act on it—because at the end of the day, he’s a nutritionist and she is a food pyramid; untouchable. Always in theory, never in practice. End of discussion.

“So you buy jewelry for all of your...acquaintances?” Arianne drawls.

“She likes _pretty_ things!” Jon says defensively.

That is when he sees it.

He could just be desperate and exhausted, but the necklace looks like it’s waiting for him. It’s a dragonfly pendant slightly bigger than his thumb, with sapphire wings, that hangs on a thin cord of silver.

“What about this?”

“Pretty indeed.” Rhaenys says with an appraising nod.

“I like it.” Dany agrees, peeking over his shoulder.

“It’s too small.”

“Arianne.” Rhaenys narrows her eyes.

She holds her hands up in a defensive manner. “I’m just saying, if he wants to get—”

“I’ll take it.” Jon interrupts, forcing a smile at the cashier and reaching for his wallet.

***

One thing Jon knows as sure as he knows his name:

He’s horrible at goodbyes.

So he plans them. Carefully.

He sets his alarm to 5:30 in the morning, and tells Jory and Bronn to prepare to meet him at the car at the back entrance of the Red Keep no later than seven, and that was when they would leave. He’d said nearly all of his goodbyes yesterday, except Egg, who he left a note for. It was going well enough, as he’d gotten down to the courtyard at 6:45, to find Bronn and Jory.

Along with the rest of his bed rumpled family.

“I _cannot_ believe you were just gonna leave in the dark.” Rhaenys seethes, jabbing her finger into his chest repeatedly. _Hard._ “The _audacity_ of you, Jaehaerys Snow.”

“How did you even find out?” Jon asks.

“How do _you_ think?” She jerks her chin in the nod of someone behind him.

Behind him, Jon finds Aegon, who looked like he hadn’t slept a wink, with hands shoved in his pockets. He takes out a slip of paper, where Jon had written his goodbye note.

“Pretty stupid of you.” Aegon says, trying for a grin. “You know I have no self control.”

“Guess I had faith in you.” Jon says.

“Guess so.”

Aegon hesitates for a second, but darts forward, awkwardly wrapping him in a sort of half hug. Jon staggers for a second, shocked, but quickly hugs him back. Hard.

“Sorry.”

Jon nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I know.”

Rhaenys wastes no time diving into his arms next. Jon catches her, smiling softly. He feels wetness on his shoulder, and pulls back to find her sniffling. “I’m going across the country, not to war.”

“Shut up.” Rhaenys sniffs, pinching him, and brushing invisible dust off his shoulders, and zipping up his hoodie. “Call me when you land. Immediately. Like, the sec—”

“I will. I promise.” He says, kissing her cheek. “I’ll be fine.”

Dany comes next, who looks far worse for wear out of everyone. The glare she gives him is equal parts undiluted fury and fondness. “I should murder you for making me get up this early.”

“You could use the practice.” Jon jokes, hugging her. “You don’t get to sleep in when you’re saving the world.”

“That’s how I know you’re gonna beat me to it.” She reaches up to ruffle up his hair, and he bats her hand away gently. It earns him a smile. “Don’t forget about us.”

“Never.”

Elia and his father stood off to the side, talking to Bronn and Jory about the travel route for the millionth time. At the sight of him, the Queen smiles warmly and kisses him on each of his cheeks, tucking an errant curl behind his ear. Something his mother used to do. The resurgence of the memory doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Me too.”

And then there were only two.

“I’m having Selmy and Whent escort you to the jet as well.” The king says. “Just to see you off safely.”

Jon resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Is that really necessary?”

“Yes.” His lilac eyes harden. “You aren’t leaving the same person you came here as. You aren’t going to be able to do the same things you used to. Don’t make their job any harder than it has to be.”  


“That’s me. Problem child of the year.”

Suddenly, his father looks twenty years older, and just as tired. His shoulders sag. “That’s not what I meant, Jaehaerys.”

Jon exhales. “I know.”

Rhaegar nods, as if he understands. And maybe he does. He claps a hand on his shoulder, squeezing firmly. The thinnest ghost of a smile flits across his face. “Be safe, son.”

***

Coming back to Wintertown is a revelation.

It is as brisk, green, and wonderful as Jon remembers, and the sky is _clear._ He can still see last night’s waxing moon in the late afternoon, and the air, even in the summer, is crisp and refreshing. It’s like the first sip of water after dehydration: refreshing, rejuvenating, _blinding._ It’s a blissful reprieve from the Southern sun. Jory seems to rejoice in it just as he does, while Bronn squints at the weather app in comical confusion.

Everything is nearly exactly the way he remembered it.

The diner is still standing by some miraculous feat of the gods, and the pizza place he used to work at still has the same broke down Chevy, and the neighborhood kids, they all still play tag on the same jungle gym. Jon is submerged head first in memories, some good and some bad and some sad, but Jon finds he doesn’t mind drowning.

***

It’s the first time in two years he’s been back in Wintertown, back at the Stark house, and even after all this time, Jon still has rotten fucking luck.

It had practically taken him an act of both the Old Gods and the new to get him to this exact point. He had to become a prince. And worst of all, everyone had to find out that he was a bastard prince in the middle of the Queen’s birthday gala. Not only was this fact repeated on several different media blogs, but in every single one of them, he’s been called a bastard seven ways to sunday.

And that’s fine.

It is. Because it made him come to his senses. It made him pack his things and haul ass all the way home, because everything was becoming too much. Too real. And the only place he had ever felt at peace was in this house. In this town. Even if those old wounds were reopening, even if on the plane here, the reasons why he left in the first place became more prevalent. Jon was home. That was all that mattered.

But just as it took an act of god to get him there, it also took one for him not to walk out the way he came.

Because he sees _her._

He sees her, and under the sunlight, her hair flames red. For a few seconds, his mouth goes dry, and it’s Ygritte sitting there at the kitchen island, flipping through the September edition of Valyrian, except Ygritte would be caught dead before she would be caught reading _anything._

That is where all the similarities end. Her hair is longer, nearly reaching the curve of her hip, and her skin is less freckled, save for that cluster on the shoulder blade that looks a lot like a constellation. Her facial features are too angular, too sharp and sculpture like, and her lips, formed in a faint smile, are too plump. That smile turns into a nonplussed pout the minute the doors swings open, and it’s revealed only to be him: unshaven, rumpled, and grimy from a day of plane travel. Even in a blue string bikini, Sansa Stark manages to look nothing less than elegant.

“Jon.” She greets with a controlled kind of politeness that thrills him. He figured she’d want credit for the first word, and most of the ones in between. “I see they finally kicked you out of Kings Landing for brooding so much. It’s about time.”

She doesn’t even blink at the two royally appointed bodyguards stationed behind him, hauling in his luggage.

He could have kissed her for that. “Did you really miss me so terribly?”

Sansa lets out a derisive snort, but Jon doesn’t miss the faint flush in her cheeks. It tells him all he needs to know. “ _As_ _if._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos, comments, and asks on my tumblr @jeynesgreyjoy are always appreciated!  
> P.S: Tell me who your favorite minor character is so far! (I’d personally lay down my life for Rhaenys Targaryen III but Myranda is a runner up too)


	3. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon arrives at the Stark house an entire three hours earlier than he is supposed to, and it’s as anticlimactic as it is complete bullshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This chapter was a delayed and postponed and reworked so many freaking times because I was feeling self conscious about the story and then I got SICK. I also was expecting it to be the length of the first chapter, which was kind of short, but then it ended up being over 14k so...yeah.  
> 2\. Thank you guys so much for the love I’ve gotten so far for this story. It means a lot. I might do a double update, since the next chapter is supposed to be kind of short (we’ll see how that goes, lol) and I’m really excited to write it. All I ask for is 25 comments in return, because I’m a human being, and validation/feedback helps me write faster.  
> 3\. Listen to “How I See it” by Dounia. It’s kind of the Jonsa anthem for this au. I’m gonna post the the playlist for the story on my tumblr, so make sure you follow if that’s something your interested in!

**Sansa**

Jon arrives at the Stark house an entire three hours earlier than he is supposed to, and it’s as anticlimactic as it is complete _bullshit._

Sansa had been expecting this moment for going on two weeks now, _bracing_ herself for it, and the key to doing that was to do absolutely nothing. Not a thing. No plans, besides the arguably shaky one her, Alys, and Jeyne had ran through over a million times. (She had put together some cordial conversation starters on index cards, but Jeyne had threw them in the trash almost immediately.) No outlined activities. No special meal plans. No well put together outfits. Nothing. That would imply Sansa _cared_ about Jon’s opinion of her, which she doesn’t.

She really, really, doesn’t.

Nevertheless, she needed to at least put _some_ stock in it, if she was going to get her designs in front of Myranda. So she practices her smiles in the mirror. She watched approximately ten minutes of the news last night, just to fish for potential conversation material, and most of all, she practices shutting her mouth. That was more important than anything, if she was going to be around Jon. No quips about his horrible taste in clothes. No asking if it was against the Revolutionaries’ handbook to get a haircut. No complaining about his whiny heroine chic music. Nothing. She was going to be _nice._ She was going to be downright darling. That was her every intention.

Right up until she actually sees him.

It’s not axis shifting or earth shattering in anyway. Sansa was good at adjusting, and while the idea of Jon being in Wintertown again was a big adjustment, she made it nonetheless. It’s not even the fact that he shows up three hours earlier that gets her—in hindsight it’s something she should have expected, as it was apart of the plan and Jon Snow did not follow plans—or that because he did she was now standing in front of him in a string bikini, it’s the fact that he shows up looking like everything he was in that picture Jeyne had showed her at the mall that day.

And up close—

He’s all lean muscle and broad shoulders. Brown curls and a five o’clock shadow. Dark eyes that after all this time, still aren’t able to decide whether they are gray or just black and slightly chapped lips. They look a little swollen, and that probably has something to do with the healing cut on his lip, and there’s a faded bruise on his jaw, like he’s been in some kind of fight. He’s wearing the same faded gray flannel he had let her wear at the homecoming after party freshman year when he spilt punch _all_ over her dress, and _that_ also happened to be the same night she had the _dream—_

It’s bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit.

Sansa purses her lips. She knows exactly what she should say. What _nice_ Sansa would say in order to smooth over the wrinkles that her remark on his capacity to brood and her snide “As if” may have caused: _How wonderful it is to see you again, Jon. Would you like a beverage? I’ll go get Arya, Bran and Rickon for you. I’ll let Dad know you’re home safely._

But after one look at that self assured, irritatingly amused smile, she has no interest in being _nice._ Instead, she slides off of the stool, and approaches him with a condescending smile that would give Margaery Tyrell a run for her money.

She flicks an intentionally prolonged glance down at his rumpled appearance. “Long flight...obviously.”

Jon scoffs. “I’m sorry I didn’t have time to freshen up for you, Princess.”

It’s Sansa’s turn to laugh this time, and it is a victorious shriek of delight. “Oh, I think I can make an exception for you, my _Prince_. Or is it your Grace?”

Jon’s answer is the gnawing of the inside of his cheek, as if he’s trying not to smile. He fails miserably. “Guess I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“Oh _willingly._ ” She agrees.

That earns her another fond eye roll, and a laugh too. It’s a laugh that’s associated with far too many of her memories to be considered healthy. It’s a laugh she loathes just as much as she really really likes. “It’s good to see you, Sans.”

This would be the part where normal people hug.

That’s what’s customary, after seeing someone you haven’t seen for a long time. It’s what her family had done when she came home, and it’s definitely what they would have been doing had they been in her position. But Sansa isn’t Bran or Arya or Rickon and Jon is—Jon. They aren’t close. They don’t _hug._ But even this could have been waived if it wasn’t for the glaringly obvious fact that she was half naked in a bikini with nothing but a flimsy white cotton hoodie to cover her and the thing is—

The thing _is—_

Sansa isn’t _stupid_.

Or naive. Not like she used to be. She’s not a kid, and she sure as hell knows she doesn’t look like one, now more than ever. She sees the looks boys give her and she’s seen the looks _men_ give her, and this particular swimsuit she was wearing always got her a lot of looks. She had originally bought it to catch the cute lifeguard’s attention at the pool the summer before junior year. It had almost worked, until Robb had told the guy she was only 17. Jeyne and Alys called it the dick magnet. Robb called it jailbait.

And Jon was trying his damndest not to look.

She sees it in the way the tips of his ears flush, and the way he’s staring determinedly at her shoulder. There’s a quick glance, surreptitious on her legs, but it so brief that Sansa nearly thinks that she imagined it. She allows the sleeve of her jacket to drop off of her shoulder— _experimentally,_ of course, for research purposes—and it happens _again_ , that look. He isn’t as quick at hiding it this time around, and it lingers. Her stomach flips.

_(How interesting.)_

“Oh.”

Jon scowls. His cheeks are a little pink now. It’s fucking _divine._ “What?”

Samsa laughs. In high pitched disbelief. In satisfaction. How the _tables have turned._ She wasn’t the skinny, practically flat chested 15 year old he remembered. He could no longer treat her as such. “Nothing.”

“It’s obviously _something_. You’re laughing.”

She blinks with feigned innocence. “Am I?”

“You _are._ ” Jon insists. “At me.”

Sansa shrugs, and he gapes. It’s simply too easy to poke and prod at him when he’s like this, all defensive. She has the upper hand for a change. She had the advantage, and it felt good. “If the dusty Doc Marten fits.”

He stammers, flustered.

She _rejoices._

_(This might not be all that hard.)_

Before she can torture him even more, there’s a slam of the backyard glass door so hard that Sansa is surprised it doesn’t shatter afterwards. The culprit, Rickon, comes barreling into the foyer, Super Soaker ablaze, only for it to crash to the floor at the sight of Jon. Water spills out, and Sansa curses. Rickon pays it no mind, jumping straight into Jon’s arms with a shout.

“JON! YOU’RE HOME!”

“Hey you!” Jon laughs, irritation forgotten, lifting Rickon into the air like he weighs nothing. He kisses the top of his head. Rickon had told Sansa just the other day that ten years old was too old for kisses, but he doesn’t seem to mind it with Jon.

“You’re early!” The smile he wears is so wide it could split his face in half. Jon ruffles his hair, setting him back down. Rickon still does not let go. It makes Sansa’s chest ache. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too, bud.”

Sansa wants to allow them their moment, and takes the towel she had intended to use for the pool before Arya, Bran, and Rickon turned the backyard became a complete war zone, to clean up the spill when Jon cuts the hug short, jerking his chin towards her. “Go help your sister clean that up.”

Rickon sighs a long suffering sigh, but starts forward to do so anyways. He takes the towel from her, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Sansa says. She could never stay mad at him for long. “But I’ve told you about running in the house. Especially with _that._ ”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Rickon protest. “She was going to—”

As if on cue, the door slams open _again,_ and there’s the squeak of rubber flip flops against the tile. Rickon yelps, darting behind Sansa to hide his face in her side. A shrill, furious voice breaks the anticipatory silence.

“You can’t hide from me forever you little _shit_!”

Arya storms in, looking every bit like a drowned cat with her choppy dark hair sticking to her temples. That was to be expected, as they had been playing with water guns, but her denim cut offs were soaked nearly all the way through. If Sansa had to guess, Rickon had probably pushed her into the pool.

(Rickon had developed a thing for pushing people into pools.)

Jon must have had the same thought, because he only laughs, shaking his head. “Nothing’s changed much, I see.”

Arya gasps. “JON!”

Outrage all forgotten, she leaps into his arm with a shriek. Jon catches her easily, completely ignoring her sodden state. It’s the happiest Sansa’s seen Arya since Micah moved away, and she’s even _giggling._

(That makes Sansa’s heart squeeze a little too.)

“You haven’t grown much, have you?”

Arya pulls back, punching him in the shoulder. “Shut up! BRAN! Get in here! Jon’s here!”

“JON?” Bran comes rushing in almost immediately. “Water!” Sansa has to shout, to keep him from breaking his neck in Rickon’s puddle, and he dodges it just in time. At 14, he was more graceful than any of them would ever be. He reaches for Jon, who raises his hand warily at the super soaker in his hand. Bran lays it gently on the counter, and then crushes him into a hug.

“Gods, you’re tall.” Jon grunts.

“Dad says I could be taller than him soon.” He boasts proudly, as he always did when anyone mentioned his almost supernatural growth spurt. He was already taller than Sansa and Robb (who was far from happy about it) and he never let them forget it.

“I believe it.”

It’s strange, how much it feels like home again.

Even if Robb wasn’t here with them, this, right moment, here and now, made Sansa feel more at home than she had in ages. Rickon using her as a personal shield to hide from Arya, Arya and Jon finishing each other’s sentences, Bran being wonderful, optimistic _Bran_ —

It was also frightening, because if she hadn’t been at home all this time, where had she been?

Sansa takes the towel from Rickon once more, wiping at the floor as if she was wiping the thought from her mind.

(it’s not something she wants to dwell on.)

Jon frowns, taking Bran’s water gun into his hands. “What are you guys doing with…semi automatics?”

“They’re super soakers.” Rickon says, holding up his own as example. He had just got done refilling it with water at the kitchen sink, still very far from Arya. “Dad got ‘em for us.”

“They’re a _menace_ is what they are, as you can see.” Sansa grumbles, standing up from her crouch on the floor at last, gesturing to the now dry floor. “They’ve been harassing each other nonstop with them all summer.”

Jon hums thoughtfully, turning it over. “How do they work?”

“Much easier than a regular gun.” Arya says, tapping the chamber. “You just make sure this is filled up, and then pull the trigger. Rickon’s gotten _really_ good at that.”

Rickon shrinks back with a squeak at Arya’s penetrating glare, shifting closer to Sansa again. She shakes her head exasperatedly, but wraps a protective arm around him. She was unofficially base, as Sansa had made it clear time and time again that she was a neutral party in their war. After Rickon’s abuse of this privilege, Arya and Bran had declared it was only good for ten minutes.

The poor thing didn’t have that much time left.

“Oh.” Jon says. “So like this?”

There’s an icy, squirt of water that hits Sansa square in the stomach. She gasps, narrowing her eyes at Jon, who looks at the tool in his hand in unabashed wonder. “Hey. ASSHOLE!”

Bran snickers. “Basically.”

Jon lifts up the super soaker confidently, squeezing one eye closed as if he’s looking through a scope.

It’s _still_ pointed at her.

“Jon.” Sansa says calmly, despite feeling the very fucking opposite of that. She laughs uneasily, backing up. Rickon quickly leaves the line of fire, ands dining her in her time of need.“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” Jon mocks her words from earlier, following her. She knows that glint of mischief in her eye. It’s never ended well for her. Back when he scared her at the haunted pumpkin patch when she was 11. When she had nearly peed herself at the cemetery him and Robb had dared her to play hide and seek in with them.

A precedent had been set, and Sansa didn’t like this at all.

She tries for a sterner tone, but the wary tremble of her voice betrays her. “Put down the gun—”

“Make me.”

Sansa stamps her foot. “I _swear_ by the old gods and the new, if you don’t—”

A burst of water catches her on her chin, splattering on her chin and Sansa sputters, because some of it actually got in her _mouth._ Tap water was in her _mouth_. Bran is clearly making an effort not to laugh, but Arya and Jon do no such thing.

She wipes at her cheek.

Takes a _deep_ fucking breath.

_(Don’t sink to his level, don’t sink to his level. Do not, I repeat, do NOT, sink to level—)_

Sansa turns to Rickon. “Give me your gun.”

Rickon’s eyes widen, and he looks to scared to continue his laugh. _Good._ “Sansa—”

She snaps her fingers. “Your gun.”

“You’re supposed to be a _neutral_ party—”

“Rickon Stark.” Sansa says, in a voice that eerily sounded like her mother in her own ears. The others must hear it too, because their laughter stops as well. He wouldn’t know that, as he never had a chance to know her.

But he must know well enough.

He gives her the gun.

“Thank you.” Sansa says coolly, adjusting the grip of the plastic in her hand. She turns to Jon, who still looks amused. She was about to wipe the _fucking floor_ with his amused little smug perfect face. “I’m feeling generous today, Snow. I’ll give you a ten second head start.”

And he knows this look in her eyes. Has to. Because he turns to run. Arya, Bran, and Rickon do the same.

Sansa doesn’t get mad.

She gets _even._

***

Even isn’t exactly what happens.

It’s more of a _stalemate_ , really.

The assault lasts for an hour, with a clear division in teams. Arya was with Jon, naturally, while Bran stuck with Sansa because he was more scared of her than he was of Jon. Rickon, being the little instigator he is, bounced back and forth between both teams, assisting whichever one he felt like at the time. It was working.

Sansa was _winning._

Because Arya was impatient, and had shitty aim when she was too eager, and Jon was laughing far too much to do any real damage. Bran got good shots in, mostly because of his speed advantage over Arya, and Sansa... _she_ knew all the good hiding places. Knew where to go when she didn’t want to be bothered. Knew where to go when she wanted to bother _others._ It’s how she’s able to sneak up on Jon, and catch him unawares.

It’s how she’s able to push him into the pool.

_That_ sweet victory is short lived though, because just as she’s laughing at Jon breaking the surface, gasping for air, a pair of small and sweaty hands with surprising force behind them push _her_ into the pool.

She comes up to see Rickon cackling, jumping up and down gleefully and pointing down at her.

(She probably should have expected that.)

Sansa attempts to glare holes into him after finally catching her breath again, but all her hair covers her face. It’s pushed back, and tucked behind her ear by Jon, who’s grinning smugly at her. She splashes him, and he laughs. It’s warms her, despite the cold of the pool. His hands slide down her shoulder blades, combing through the loose red strands.

(She _really_ wishes she wasn’t still wearing this stupid hoodie.)

“Truce?”

She looks at him; they’re the same height now. _Oh no_ , she thinks inanely, looking into those dark eyes, feeling her gut wrench. _Absolutely not,_ she thinks, as her fingers twitch at her sides to smooth over the white scar running through his eyebrow that he had gotten from rock climbing with Robb and Uncle Benjen when he was 15. _No way in any of the seven fucking hells,_ she swears, as she feels his thumb swipe over sharp jut of bone on her back and her toes are inadvertently _curl—_

Sansa pushes him back, sneering to keep her blush at bay. “As _if._ ”

***

Sansa gets to shower first, of course, or at least she steals it before anyone else can object. As much as she wants to (and as much as they all deserve it) she doesn’t use up all of the hot water, and makes her shower as quick as hygienically possible. After blow drying her hair and eavesdropping to make sure that Jon was truly in the shower so she wouldn’t have to face him, Sansa makes her way downstairs, and into the kitchen.

Nan, their housekeeper, sits at the island, rubbing her temples. She was the only member of the household staff besides Rickon’s nanny, Osha, that was asked to stay on for the week Jon would be here. The less people that were in the house and knew he was staying with them, the lesser the chance of his exposure, their father had explained.

“Is everything alright, Nan?” Sansa asks. Her wrinkled face looks pale and drawn, and her eyes are drooping, as if she’s fighting to stay awake.

“Of course, dear.” Nan smiles. “I’m just taking a quick break before I start dinner.”

As tired as she clearly is, she’s still gripping the counter, staring determinedly at the rotisserie chicken in front of her. She was old, so old that she had been around when Sansa’s grandparents had her father and uncles. Because uncle Brandon never had any children, her father offered her a job with their family, and she had been here ever since.

She _was_ family, and the closest thing Sansa had to a grandparent besides Grandpa Hoster. She wouldn’t risk losing her.

“I think you need a lot more than that, Nan.” Sansa chides. “Dr. Luwin says that you need to be mindful when you’re over exerting yourself—”

“Oh, what does that old coot know?” Nan waves a dismissive hand. “I’m just as spry at 82 as I was at 23. Not _one_ hip replacement, I’ll have you know.”

(Dr. Luwin was only ten years younger than Nan, but nobody could tell her that.)

Sansa sighs, taking her hand. “I _do_ know, Nan. But it’s okay to rest every once in awhile. You just said you needed to yourself.”

“A _quick_ rest.” Nan corrects stubbornly. “A short rest, that’s all.”

“A quick rest.” Sansa agrees. “You should take it in your room, and then you’ll be as good as new.”

This is what she often did to trick Nan into taking a break: herd her into her room where she would help her take her medicines and she’d fall asleep every time, without fail, until the morning. But this time, Nan isn’t having it. She scowls.

“There’s no time for that.” She says. “I have to get started on dinner. It’s the first night Jon’s been home in years. I have to make his favorite.”

Jon could occasionally be a dick, but he’d understand if they ordered take out. He probably wasn’t even expecting anything special. He had a habit of doing that, trying to fly under the radar when it came to attention. But Nan liked to make sure all of her kids got equal attention, and that included him.

“He won’t mind a small delay.” Sansa tries to convince her. “You need the rest.”

“I did it for you when you came home, and for Robb. He’ll be expecting it.” Nan persists. “And he should have it. Only the gods know how long it’s been since he’s had a home cooked meal, the poor thing. And with everything he’s been through?”

_(Gods._ )

Nan was going to crash and burn in front of the oven if she kept going like this, and maybe then she’d finally need a hip replacement. But she wasn’t going to slow down any other way.

_(I’m going to regret this.)_

“I could get started on it for you, Nan.”

Nan blinks. She then smiles, patting Sansa’s shoulder in a manner that was a little too condescending for her taste. “That’s very kind of you to offer, ladybug, but this is a very complex meal. I don’t know that you could handle making a chicken pot pie.”

This could have been it.

She could have backed out now.

Too bad her conscience wasn’t allowing it.

“I’ll make his other favorite then. That soup. You showed me that one.” Sansa offers. “Besides, you won’t have enough time for a chicken pot pie. It’s almost six already.”

Nan looks at the clock on the stove, and curses, rubbing her forehead. “I thought I’d have the laundry all folded by three. I completely lost track of time.”

That wasn’t necessarily her fault. She usually had more help, and was probably be stressed beyond her wits now that she was handling it all by herself. But Sansa had promised her father that she’d try to help her when she could.

It was the least she could do.

“Let me help, Nan.” She says again. “I’ll only be starting on it. Then you can come in and finish after your rest.”

(She wouldn’t be waking up from her rest until the next morning, but she didn’t need to know that. Better that she thinks she still has control than make her feel like a helpless “old coot.”)

Nan hesitates, considering. “You remember the recipe?”

“Duh.” Sansa says proudly, and taps her temple. “Daddy says I have the memory of an elephant.”

“And the stubbornness of a bull.” Nan snorts, shaking her head, but there’s a faint smile on her lips. “You have gotten better in the kitchen lately.”

She _had._ She made breakfast all by herself a few weeks ago, and only had to use the fire extinguisher once. “I had the best teacher.” She kisses Nan’s cheek. “It’ll be fine.”

( _Hopefully.)_

_“Fine_.” Nan points a knobby finger at her. “A quick rest.”

“A quick rest! Promise.”

And Nan is finally shuffling out of the kitchen and off to her room, muttering something about the relentlessness of Starks, and Sansa is standing alone. In a kitchen. Stuck fulfilling a promise she really had no business making.

“Fuck _me._ ”

***

The first thing Sansa does is change into her jeans.

She had exactly four pairs, and she never wore them to school or out in public otherwise. But in the house, she could afford to be this casual. It was her go to cooking uniform, and something she’d much rather prefer to get food on than her designer sundress. She puts on her purple sweater too, as it was so last season a few stains wouldn’t matter.

When she finally goes downstairs and makes for the kitchen, she hears Arya and Rickon groan in the living room simultaneously. “Oh no.”

Sansa scowls.

“What?” Jon asks. He had been on the couch with them, watching TV.

It’s Bran who speaks this time, and he sounds just as unsettled as the others. “Sansa’s cooking dinner.”

Jon laughs in disbelief. It annoys her even more. “Since when does she cook?”

“Arya gives Dad high blood pressure,” Rickon says forlornly. “Sansa is trying to make sure he eats better. It’s all her fault.”

A slap of skin against skin. “Shut up!”

“It’s edible most of the time.” Bran says, as if that’s supposed to reassure him.

_The Faith they have in me is inspiring,_ Sansa thinks bitterly.

She tunes them out, and sets to work. The chicken was already out. She takes a brief look at the list of spices she’d made upstairs and starts taking them all down one by one, organizing them by the order they would need to be used in. It’s going well so far. She gets the coconut oil melting in a pot on the stove, and is starting to chop up the vegetables when Jon walks into the kitchen, with Arya, Bran, and Rickon following close behind, like little ducklings.

It’s not adorable.

It _isn’t._

Jon raises his eyebrows. “Need any help?”

If Jon hadn’t just harassed her with a water gun just two hours before, Sansa would have thought that he was being condescending, but this was just typical Jon. After a day of being especially irritating, he’d always try to make it up to her somehow, whether it be by giving her the last lemon cake or letting her pick the show they watched on TV or leave her in relative peace. He had reached his quota of the day, and was now trying to redeem himself. Normally, Sansa would reject all of these advances, but currently—

(his hair is still wet, and tied into a knot at the nape of his neck and he’s wearing black, specifically a long sleeved black Henley that left very little to the imagination in terms of his muscularity—when had he gotten that muscular? Was that even allowed? And it brought out his eyes, Gods his _eyes,_ and they looked really really dark and soft—)

She needed all of the help she could get.

Sansa presses her lips into a thin line. “You can wash the lettuce for the salad, I guess. The strainer’s under the island.”

His lips twitch.

(It’s annoying.)

“So what are we making?” Jon asks after taking the bowl out, preparing to wash his hands.

She’d rather die a slow and painful death than have him know that she was actively trying her best to make him one of his favorite meals. “Food.”

Arya snorts. “Debatable.”

Just as Sansa readies herself to respond with an equally bitchyremark, Jon says, “Hey.” and Arya sticks out her tongue. But she still mutters an apology all the same. It’s so quiet and unusual Sansa isn’t sure it happened.

_(The twilight zone. That’s what this is.)_

She doesn’t say anything back, not even a thank you to Jon. Just takes out her cutting board and gets to chopping up her green onions.

“When do we get our presents?” Arya asks, hopping up onto the stool to better watch Jon.

“How do you know I even got you guys anything?” Jon counters cryptically. After adequately rinsing his hands, he takes the lettuce, and dumps it into the strainer.

“Because you _love_ us.” Rickon says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Now when do we get them?”

That answer is apparently good enough for him. Jon smiles, and relents. “When your Dad gets home.”

“You don’t even know when Dad gets home.” Rickon complains.

Jon nudges Sansa. “What time does Ned get home?”

She shrugs. “Around four on a good day. Six most of the time.”

“Traitor.” Arya snaps, and it’s Sansa’s turn to stick her tongue out.

“Can we at least get a hint?” Bran begs.

Jon grins. “Nope.”

“Pleaaaaaaaaaaaaaseeeeeee,” Rickon whines, and Sansa gives him a sharp warning look. He stops immediately.

“Guys. He already said you’re waiting until Daddy gets home. That’s final.”

“Oh come on, Sans.” Arya huffs. “Don’t you wanna know what your present is?”

 _Not really._ Sansa says nothing, continuing to chop her onions.

That catches Jon’s attention. He shuts off the water. “You’re not in the least bit curious?”

And _that_ catches her attention.

Should she have a _reason_ to be curious? When Robb first went south, the most he had brought her back was a tacky sweatshirt, and she had kind of been expecting the same Jon, if not less. Her and Robb actually got along for the most part. What could Jon have to give her that she would be curious about?

It’s probably a prank.

(It’s definitely prank.)

Was helping her cook away of Jon trying to get her to let her guard down? To get her to _think_ he was done, when he really wasn’t done? Arya was probably in on it. Maybe Rickon, he always wanted a good laugh. But Bran...

_(Would Bran stoop so low?)_

Sansa’s so suspicious, so caught up in her own paranoid and frantic thoughts, the knife she’s using to cut the onions slips a little too hard, and slices her index finger. She hisses.

“Shit.” Jon swears, grabbing her arm. He presses the stove towel to her finger in an effort stop the blood flow. It stings. “Bran, get the first aid kit.”

“Don’t let blood get on the onions!” Sansa cries out, biting her lip. Rivulets of blood are running steadily down her arm, which is still hovering above the cutting board.

“Your finger has been split open and you’re worried about the fucking onions?” Jon exclaims incredulously.

“It’s _unsanitary_!”

Jon shakes his head, clearly at a loss for words, but moves the cutting board anyways. Bran sets the first aid kit by the sink, and that is where Jon leads her to wash all of the blood off.

“Is it really that bad?” Sansa asks queasily. The amount of blood she had just seen was cause enough for concern.

“Worse.” Arya feigns a gag. “You’re finger’s nearly _gone_.”

“Don’t.” Jon warns her. He shuts the water off, inspecting the hand closely. “You won’t need stitches. I think.”

She chances a look. It was still pretty gross, but not at all what Arya had made it out to be. Just a gash running down the length of her finger. She manages not to flinch as Jon takes a cotton swab of neosporin and and dabs it on the gash. He moves slowly, as if not to frighten her, and touches her gently, as if she’s made of glass. His hands are rough, but surprisingly warm. His sleeves are rolled up, and his tattoo is peeking out again.

Sansa shuts her eyes. _Oh no._

“You need to pay closer attention.” Jon reprimands her, but not harshly. “It could have been way worse.”

“I was paying attention.”

_(It was you and your schemes that got me all mixed up.)_

He opens up a bandaid, and then raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “Spider man?”

“Rickon grew out of his love for the Care Bears.” Bran puts in.

“I never liked Care Bears!” Rickon snaps.

Jon wraps the bandage around her thumb, carefully making sure not corner creased. His lips quirk up in a relieved smile afterwards that makes her chest do funny things when he meets her eyes. “Looks like you’ll live to see another day, Pippi Longstocking.”

“Pippi Longstocking?”

“You know.” Jon tugs on her pigtails, just like he used to. “Your hair.”

“ _Wow_.” Sansa glares. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t say it was bad. It’s cute.”

_Cute._

Two hours ago she had been a red haired seductress, a walking temptation, in her blue bikini that didn’t leave much to the imagination. He’d practically been _drooling_ over her. She had him _eating_ out of the palm of her hand.

But now she was just _cute._

( _And back to square one.)_

“Get out.” Sansa’s cheeks flush, and she points to the door. “All of you. Now.”

Jon’s eyes widen in confusion. “What? I was—”

“I need quiet in the kitchen.” She declares, shoving at his broad shoulders, forcing him towards the living room. His little ducks follow. “Like you said, I need to play closer attention. You guys are distractions.”

“I thought we were—”

“You’ve helped plenty, thanks!” Sansa says in a voice that sounds a little too shrill to be her own. “Dinner will be ready soon!”

And they’re gone.

Sansa slumps against the island, head in her hands.

This was going to be the longest week of her life.

***

While the chicken is sautéing, Sansa does what she normally does in any situation where she’s feeling overwhelmed:

She calls her girls.

Once everyone else is upstairs playing some violent video game, and safely out of hearing range of her conversation, Sansa hooks up her headphones, and FaceTimes Jeyne and Alys.

“This is the _worst_ day of my life.” Sansa complains once their faces come into view.

“Already?” Alys says, amused, and out of breath. It looks like she’s outside. Probably on one of her runs.

“Is that really what you wore when you saw him?”  
Jeyne scrunches her nose in disapproval. It looks like she’s laying on her bed in her room. “I know we didn’t have a set outfit planned, Sans, but jeez.”

“I like it.” Alys argues, forever her champion. “But the hair is a bit milkmaidish.”

Sansa scoffs, running her fingers through her hair to undo the cursed hairstyle. “Do you two really think that horribly of me? Of course I didn’t wear this.” She pauses, debating on whether she should tell them the next part, knowing how they would react.

She decides to anyway.

“I was _actually_ wearing a bikini when he arrived, I’ll have you know.”

There’s an absurd amount of shrieking coming from both sides of the screen, and Sansa actually has to take her headphones out until they’re finished. When that moment comes, Jeyne is still having a seizure on the bed, or at least that’s what it looks like, and Alys is staring at her, eyes wide in scandal.

“Sansa Stark, You WHORE!”

“It was on accident, I swear!” Sansa laughs“I was getting ready to get in the pool...and He came home early.”

“It still _happened_!” Jeyne shouts. “I don’t care how!”

She was right about that, at least. And some part of Sansa was kind of glad it did, because if it didn’t, she would have never known Jon was attracted to her, even for those few seconds. But the majority of her wished it didn’t happen at all, because it was now all she could think about.

Apparently hormones were hormones, whether you were 15 or 18.

“So tell me: what happened next?” Jeyne says eagerly, bringing the camera closer to her face. “Did he ravish you? Take you right then and there? Or did he bend you over his knee and spank you for being such a bad gi—"

“JEYNE!” Sansa yells, and then claps a hand over her mouth immediately. She waits, just to make sure no one heard her, and then turns back to the camera, cheeks heated up. “Does your mind always have to be in the gutter?.”

“He’s a spanker, I just know it.” Jeyne insists, pointing at her through the camera. “That man _spanks_.”

“Ignore her.” Alys tells her, although the smile on her face was mischievous and uncontrollable as well. “What happened next?”

Sansa glowers. “He sprayed me with a water gun.”

Alys lets out a disappointed “Oh” while Jeyne makes a disgusted sound that Sansa cannot help but laugh at, irritation forgotten

“Boys.” Jeyne says the word like it’s a swear. “I will never understand them. They get hard for you, and then they want to pretend that it never happened.”

Sansa’s mouth falls open. “He wasn’t…” she blushes. “I didn’t…”

Jeyne narrows her eyes in disbelief. “You didn’t check?”

“Of course I didn’t check, are you crazy?” She whispers furiously. “That’s not—It’s hardly _polite_.”

She’d been pretty preoccupied with his face at that moment. His very pretty face. And his laugh. And that damn _tattoo—_

“You should have.” Jeyne insists. “We would have at least known if he’s packing,”

“Not necessarily.” Alys argues“He could be a grower, not a shower. That’s Sigorn.”

“Lucky.” Jeyne sighs wistfully, letting her head fall onto her bed. “Theon’s huge. Like at first I didn’t even think it was gonna fit and I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve gotten fucking _lockjaw—_ ”

“EW! EW! EW!” Sansa shouts, almost moving to plug her ears before she remembers that she’s still wearing headphones. She just glares at her instead. “Jeyne, he’s like my _brother_.”

Alys and Sigorn’s sex life was alright to hear about. She didn’t _know_ Sigorn personally. Sigorn hadn’t seen her running around in diapers. Sigorn didn’t begrudgingly ask one of his hookups to borrow a tampon for her sake when she got her period at school. Sigorn was Sigorn. But Theon was Theon…and she already heard enough about _his_ sex life from him. Now she had to suffer it from Jeyne too?

Jeyne tsks. “Not at all, trust me. Robb’s a grower.”

“WHY DO YOU—“ Sansa halts, gaping. “HOW DO YOU—”

“Oh relax. I didn’t bang your brother. Gross.” Jeyne shivers in disgust, as if she hadn’t had a crush just five years ago. “I saw nudes.”

“His psycho holier than thou Essosi girlfriend leaked them when she thought he was cheating.” Alys explains. “I saw them too.”

“Talisa?” Sansa asks, outraged.

“Yep,” they chorused in unison.

“What a bitch.”

“You can say that again. Robb doesn’t have very good taste in girls,” Alys muses aloud. “and it’s only gonna get worse from here, considering he’s like, a serial monogamist.”

Sansa had long ago known her brother was destined to be unlucky in love, as after he broke up with Jeyne Westerling, his taste just went down from there. But she definitely had no room to talk, not after what happened with Joffrey.

_(Maybe it’s some kind of family curse.)_

“You guys will never guess what I’m doing right now.” Sansa says, shifting her focus from that depressing thought, and pushing herself up onto the stool.

“Preparing to smother Jon in his sleep?” Alys offers.

“It’s not nearly as pleasant as that would be.” She says. “I’m cooking his favorite meal. Nan wasn’t feeling well so I’m doing her a favor.”

Jeyne cackles. “You really can’t catch a break, can you?”

“I _know!”_

“It does sound like a very nice thing to do for someone, though.” Alys teases. “This could be your chance.”

Sansa looks down at her chopped vegetables with an insurmountable feeling of dread curdling in her stomach. “If I don’t poison him on accident first.”

“Oh stop it.” Jeyne demands. “As long as you’ve got the recipe, nothing can go wrong.”

“In theory.” A lot of things that shouldn’t have went wrong seemed to be going wrong today. And her track record in the kitchen wasn’t exactly stellar.

“You’re Sansa fucking Stark.” Alys asserts. “You’ve been through the impossible. You’ve survived it all. Are you really gonna let some stupid meatloaf get the best of you?”

_(She has a point.)_

“I’m cooking soup.” Sansa corrects.

“Well that’s even better!” Alys cries. “It’s soup. Anyone can do soup. _Jeyne_ could do soup— no offense babe.”

“None taken.” Jeyne says brightly, and then points her finger at the camera once again. “You can do this Sansa. As someone wise once said: You are _every_ woman.”

“I _can_ do this.” Sansa repeats. How many times had she cooked before? Sure she had some bad experiences, but almost half of them were good ones too. And if this was going to get her closer to Jon, if this was going to be her _nice_ thing, then she’d just have to suck it up. She’d have to find a way. “I’m every woman.”

.

***

“What is it?” Rickon squints into the pot, sniffing suspiciously.

“Don’t stick your grubby little nose into my food.” Sansa warms, pinching at his arm. That does the trick—he backs away immediately. “It’s chicken vegetable soup. Nan’s recipe. Go set the table.”

It’s not as bad as it could be.

Sansa acknowledges this optimistically. It’s not charred black. Afterwards, she had managed to cook her vegetables, and flavor her broth without incident. The salad was easy enough to make, and didn’t really cause her much trouble. But the chicken was still a little dry. Sansa attempted to mask that by overcompensating on broth and vegetables.

It might even be her best success to date.

Arya grimaces. “You’re sure about that?”

“It kind of looks like it.” Bran notes, looking into the pot. Sansa goes to punch him on the arm too, but he’s too quick for her and dodges it. “Smells like it too.”

“You made this?” Jon is looking into the pot now. Sansa doesn’t pinch him. Doesn’t have a chance to, because seconds later, she’s squirming underneath his gaze. He looks impressed. In awe. And something else she really doesn’t want to place. “It’s my favorite.”

Sansa hums noncommittally, moving past him to reach for the pot. It’s a miracle that all of the blood in her body isn’t rushing to her face. “Is it? That’s funny.”

(She thought she’d be able to tell him that that was why she made it in the first place, but not when he’s looking at her like that. No way.)

Jon gives her another one of those fond eye rolls that are only hers, biting his lip. He doesn’t say a word though, just moves to wash his hands.

(It’s clear he doesn’t really believe her.)

_(Alys, you might be onto something.)_

Sansa pours just a ladle full into everyone’s bowl, and sets the salad bowl and bread loaf at the center of the dining room table for everyone to grab for themselves. She sits the iced tea—another one of Nan’s recipes and something else she had gotten good at making, as it was a healthier alternative to soda for her father—near the head of the table.

It’s silent.

No one really seems to want to move first, whether it be to pick up a spoon or breathe. It’s Rickon who makes the first move, crossing his arms stubbornly and sitting back against his chair.

“I’m not eating this.” He says hotly. “I don’t even _like_ vegetables. Or soup. It’s too...soupy.”

_Too soupy._

It was her first actual success in the kitchen, after an entire summer of him complaining about all of her failures that he had to force down, and when there’s a chance he might actually like it, he can’t even it, because it has vegetables in it. And it’s too _soupy_.

Her patience with him was usually everlasting, but after an anxious hour and a half spent in the kitchen slaving over a hot stove, all Sansa wants to do is throttle him until he’s cross eyed.

“You need your vegetables, kid.” Jon tells him. “Don’t you wanna be as tall as Bran? How do you think he got that way?”

Under the table, he must have kicked him, because Bran startles a little, straightening his shoulders and forcing a smile. “That’s me. A Vegetable addict.”

“Why do you think Arya never grows?” Jon jokes, and reaches over to pat her head.

“Hey!” Arya snaps, batting his hand away. “I’m not short! My feet reach the floor now.”

That seems to scare Rickon into action. He pales, and in seconds, he’s shoveling spoonfuls of soup in his mouth, exclaiming over enthusiastic praises. Bran snickers, and Jon reaches over to bump his fist. They begin to eat as well. Arya joins in too, after typing something on her phone.

And they don’t _scream_.

Or gag. Or choke. Or claim to be dying of food poisoning. That is what they usually do; or maybe just Arya and Rickon. Bran mostly tries to spare her feelings, but he’s a terrible liar. But when he tells her it tastes great, he seems genuine, and even gives her a thumbs up. Him and Jon both go for seconds.

“Tastes like Nan’s.” Arya makes the confession under her breath, and as if someone was forcing her to say it with a gun under her head. Sansa glows.

“Sorry, what was that?” She feigns a frown, tapping on her earlobe. “Didn’t quite catch it.”

Arya laughs darkly. “Oh I am _not_ saying that again.”

“What she means is,” Jon interrupts, before an argument can erupt. “It was grea. Really. I’ll never doubt your skills in the kitchen for as long as I live.”

“Okay, now you’re milking it.” Arya argues. “We’re gonna be back to eating rubber pancakes and raw turkey bacon in the morning. This was a complete fluke.”

Sansa actually kind of agreed, since it was out of sheer desperation and love for Nan that she had even pulled it off, but she wasn’t going to let Arya know that, and she wasn’t going to tell Jon that either. Let him believe that it was another thing she was better at than him. A humbled Jon was a Jon that was way easier to deal with.

“Nah.” Jon shakes his head. “She’s just amazing at everything. That’s Sansa.”

_That’s Sansa._

_She’s just amazing._

A shiver crawls down her spine.

_(Oh no._ )

“What?”

_(Did I say that aloud?)_

“You did.” Bran clarifies, looking at her as if she grew three heads. “And yes, you said _that_ out loud too. You alright?”

Everyone is looking at her now, equally confused, and Sansa wants to sink into the floor. What was she supposed to say? Hey guys, I actually had this embarrassing attraction to Jon when I was fifteen and he became the object of my sexual fantasies for a solid three months, and now that he’s back, it may or may not be happening again, because now he’s even hotter?

Something told her that wouldn’t go over well.

Thankfully, she’s saved from having to answer. The front door opens, and her Father’s voice comes booming from the foyer. Rickon slides out of his chair and goes running immediately, yelling “Present time!” while Arya tugs Jon out of his chair, pulling him into the foyer. To keep herself from being left alone with nosy Bran, Sansa follows.

“My boy.” Sansa walks into the foyer just in time to see Ned envelop Jon in a bear crushing hug. He pulls back minutes later. He’s smiling, more than she had seen him do in months. “Gods, look at you. You look bigger. Doesn’t he look bigger?”

“His head does.” Arya quips.

“It’s good to be home, Uncle Ned.” Jon says. “I know you’ve done a lot to get me here...thank you.”

_(What did that mean? A lot?)_

Sansa had assumed that after the news broke that Jon would stay in King’s Landing, get used to living with his new family. But he came home. Had he not been allowed to do that? Now that she thinks about it, what kind of Prince takes a job without pay at a law firm when he probably had dozens of connections from his father at his disposal? What kind of prince has a job at all?

But then again, Jon was always the type of person that worked for what he wanted. He always would be.

“Nonsense. Family takes care of family.” Ned says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “What’s that smell? Did Nan already make dinner?”

“Sansa did, Dad.” Bran informs him, finding his way into the room at last. He hands him the bowl Sansa had prepared earlier. “She left you this in the microwave.”

Ned takes the bowl, sniffing suspiciously as everyone else had before. He turns to her in shock.“You?”

Sansa folds her arms over her chest defensively. “You could try to sound a little less surprised, you know.”

“I’m not _surprised._.” Ned says quickly. “I have the utmost faith in you, you know that. But….you don’t usually have the best luck in the kitchen.”

“It’s true, Dad.” Rickon assures him, bouncing up and down. “She put lots of vegetables in it. I ate them all, so I be as tall as you and Bran.”

“It’s about time you ate something green.” Ned bends down, tapping his nose.“If it wasn’t for your sister, you’d be a walking cavity.” He stands up then, and kisses her cheek. “It smells great. You did a good job.”

Sansa beams.

***

After Ned finishes dinner, they all sit in his study like they used to so long ago, drinking hot chocolate. It might have only been the end of summer, but he had declared that tradition was tradition, and made them all a cup.

“It’s present time.” Rickon chimes in once they all settle down. He’s sat at Bran’s feet, who’s in an armchair. Arya sits at Jon’s feet in a similar fashion, and Jon sits next to Sansa on the couch.

(She makes sure to keep an appropriate amount of space between them, and allows the hot chocolate to scald her tongue when her eyes drift towards the curve of his jaw. And then his hands.)

(And then everything else because she had zero self control.)

“Alright, Alright.” Jon relents at last, and then jerks his chin toward the door. “Go get my bag out of my room.”

Rickon is out of the door before Sansa can blink, and her father chuckles at that. “I take it he’s been badgering you about it since you got home?”

“You have no idea.”

The dinner fiasco had chased every suspicion Sansa had about her “present” to the back of her mind. But now, she had absolutely nothing to distract her. She tries her very best not let that show, sipping at her hot chocolate. Her mind races.

One time, when she was 10, Robb and Jon went on this class field trip up to the Wall, and when she went to bed that night, she found an ice tarantula under her pillow that looked horribly real. She heard Robb and Jon snickering in the adjoined bathroom, and she had chased them all around the house, _seething_ , until Lyanna pulled them both by the ear and made them apologize.

Another time, when she was 12, Jon and Robb rented an r rated movie without Ned’s permission as he was out of town, and Lyanna was sound asleep in her room. Sansa had told them that she was going to tell if they didn’t let her watch too, and she immediately regretted it. It was all blood, guts, chopped off heads, and to her surprise, boobs. Later that night, Jon tackled her from behind in a werewolf mask on her way to sneak into Arya’s room. Robb wasn’t even his excuse that time. He was just an _asshole._

He’s always _been_ an asshole.

It really wasn’t that outlandish to suspect he had something else up his sleeve.

Rickon comes back just as soon as he left, struggling to carry a dusty brown leather duffel on his shoulder. It’s the same bag she saw Jon use to pack up for Barrowtown. He heaves it into his lap, and unzips it.

Sansa braces herself.

“Since you’ve been waiting so _patiently_ ,” Jon jokes, handing a bag to Rickon. “This is for you.”

Rickon tears into the bag, ripping it right down the side. He takes out a box. All Sansa can make out on the side are the words LEGO. He hollers. “HOLY SHITBALLS!”

“Language.” Ned interjects sharply.

“Sorry. It’s so cool!”

Bran peeks over Rickon’s shoulder, and nods his head appreciatively. “An iron throne LEGO model. Sick.”

“Let’s hope you can stay still long enough to finish it.” Arya remarks.

Rickon glares at her, but ultimately ignores the comment. He hugs Jon instead. “I love it. Thanks Jon!”

“You’re welcome.”

Bran is next. He’s a little less eager than Rickon, but excited all the same. He takes the lidded black box Jon hands him carefully, and then grins up at him, like he knows exactly what it is. Sansa doesn’t doubt he does. Bran somehow always knew everything.

Sansa realizes she probably should have known too.

A snow globe of the red keep sits in his palm. It’s not just any old souvenir one, either. The details of the castle are so intricate and numerous, that it reminds Sansa of the ones her mom used to collect. Bran had been insistent on maintaining the collection long after she was gone, and kept them all up in his room.

_(It’s what she would have wanted.)_

_(He was always secretly her favorite.)_

It was the perfect gift for him.

“Thanks, Jon.” Bran smiles. “She would love it.”

In the armchair closest to the window, Ned tenses, as he often does when there’s any mention of her. But he doesn’t say a word. Sansa, Robb, and Arya had come to terms that this was just the way things would always be, but not Bran, never Bran, although he was barely old enough to remember when she died. Maybe that was part of it. He would always be chasing down the memory of her to make sure it never left.

Arya comes next. She still looks a little dazed from the mention of their mother, but she musters up a smile when Jon squeezes her shoulder. It’s not fake for long, and the shout that comes from her mouth is much like the one that came from Rickon’s moments before.

“THE SAND SNAKES?! YOU ACTUALLY MET THE SAND SNAKES?”

The Sand Snakes were Arya’s favorite band in the entire world. It was everything she stood for; angry punk music that railed against the patriarchy. She had begged to go to a concert, but they rarely ever toured North. The CD she was staring at wide eyed had a variety of signatures on it. Her fingers were trembling.

“My friend, Arianne. They’re her cousins.” Jon explains.

Arianne.

_(As if we didn’t know who the fucking future Ruling Princess of Dorne was, honestly.)_

“This is…” Arya takes a shaky breath, tapping the surface of the CD. “This is the Red Viper EP. It’s only available in the cities near the Rhoyne. It’s _impossible_ to get.”

Jon ruffles her hair. “I told them I knew a big fan.”

Arya wraps her arms around his neck tightly, raining kisses all over his face. “Thank you thank you thank you!”

He laughs, squeezing her just as tightly. “You’re welcome.”

“I have to find my laptop. I have to listen to it.” Arya babbled, jumping up. “My headphones? Where are my headphones? I have to call Shireen. She’s gonna _freak._ ”

Arya leaves the room in a flurry of excitement, practically skipping with every step.

The sight was almost _frightening_ , but not nearly as frightening as the way Jon was looking at her.

Sansa can’t really describe it. It seems unsure. Definitely awkward. Nervous maybe? She doesn’t know. She just wants it to stop. Immediately. The dread building up in her stomach has everything to do with him reaching in his box. They weren’t alone; Ned was inspecting Rickon’s LEGO iron throne model a few feet away, and Bran was still looking at his snow globe, but they weren’t paying attention. So it felt like they were.

She doesn’t like that feeling at all.

Jon scratches the back of his neck, taking out another box. “This one is yours.”

A velvet box.

And Sansa isn’t an idiot.

She _knows_ what goes in velvet boxes.

Her father had given her her first diamond studs at six years old in a smaller velvet box. He kept Grandma’s ring in a similar one in his dresser, just in case Robb ever had need for it one day. Joffrey had presented her with a necklace on their one month anniversary in a velvet box, but that wasn’t—that _couldn’t_ be what was inside _this_ velvet box.

Sansa takes it, because she doesn’t really have any other choice in the matter without being rude. She just hoped it was a trick. She really needed this to be some kind of fucked up prank. It’s what she’s _praying_ , as she opens up the box, because her stomach is already doing that weird swoopy thing for the millionth time today, and—

“Oh.”

It’s not some fucked up prank.

A dragonfly on a thin silver chain rests inside, with wings the color of sapphire.. It’s not any bigger than the size of her thumb, but still prettier than any necklace she owned at the moment. It reminds her of a charm bracelet her Uncle Brandon once gave her long ago, when she had been obsessed with the story of Jenny of Oldstones and her Prince of Dragonflies. When she still believed in fairytales.

Jon blanches. “You hate it.”

“No! Not at all!” Sansa promises hurriedly. It feels like she’s talking around molasses in her mouth. “It’s...it’s gorgeous.”

_(I am going to hurl myself off a fucking cliff.)_

“Thank you.”

“You’re not the easiest person to shop for.” Jon attempts to tease. It falls flat when she can’t even make herself smile. He tries again, clearing his throat. “I just—dragonflies, right? You used to really like dragonflies.”

_Oh no_.

“I have to—” Sansa shoots up from the couch. “I have a thing. To do. Like…now.”

“Oh.” Jon frowns. “Right now?”

“Yes. A huge thing. An important thing.” Sansa emphasizes, putting as much distance between them as humanly possible at the moment. Rickon and her father complain when her shoe lands in a pile of their LEGOS, and she squeaks out an apology. “Thanks. For the necklace. Bye!”

As soon as she’s safely out of view of the study, Sansa makes a break for it, and runs. All the way upstairs. All the way past Arya’s room, where punk music was being blared at the maximum volume, and finally, into her room, where she slams the door with a lot more force than is probably necessary, and flops on to her bed, stuffing her face into a pillow.

She _screams._

_***_

That night, Sansa does not sleep.

She tries her absolute _best_ to. She watches the Pride & Prejudice mini series with Colin Firth. She listens to the audiobook version of Robb’s psychology text book that he had accidentally airdropped to her. She even stairs up at the ceiling, willing her eyes to droop shut, _begging_ her heart rate to slow, but each time she puts her hand over her chest to calm it, she finds the _necklace._

The _stupid_ necklace.

It didn’t take her long to succumb to its allure and attach the chain around her neck, and as much as she tries, she couldn’t bring herself to take it back off. It really was beautiful, and complemented nearly everything she owned (after two hours of laying in her bed restless, she had tried on some of her favorite outfits just to make sure) and it matched her eyes. It was perfect. Everything about it was perfect.

And that was _confusing._

Frustrating. Irritating. How could he do this to her? Show up out of the blue after two years of nothing except “happy birthday” texts and the occasional Instagram like and a passing mention from Arya or Robb, and just bulldoze everything she had worked towards. He couldn’t just be _normal?_ Tug on her ponytail and roll his eyes at nearly everything she said.

Of course not.

He had to show up, looking like _that_ , and then looking at her like _that,_ and then trick her into thinking that things had gone back to normal, just for a second, before he gives her a fucking necklace, and tells her he was thinking about her when Robb probably wouldn’t have gotten her more than a stuffed animal, and honestly—

_Honestly._

Jon’s lucky that Sansa has common sense. That she isn’t stupid enough to read into that, because on the surface: it looks bad. It has _implications_ . If she told Jeyne and Alys what happened, they’d already be tailoring her wedding dress and planning bachelorette party activities, but she wasn’t going to. She _knew_ Jon, and she knew that he was _far_ from in love with her.

But Sansa didn’t understand him.

She never had, really. Not for lack of trying. It was just that their definitions of trying didn’t always match up, and that was where the miscommunication often took root. And then they just stopped. Sansa had accepted long ago that she was more of an obligation of Jon’s and a source of entertainment rather than his true sibling, like all of the others. That had ended up being just _fine_ with her, considering her dreams about him were anything but brotherly.

And now even _that_ wasn’t true, because—

Jon actually _cared_ about her.

More than Sansa had originally anticipated. More than she had thought her entire life. Okay, he was still a jerk, but maybe not as much as before. He gave her first aid. Acted as a peacekeeper for her and Arya, when more often than not he was always on Arya’s side (but maybe that was just because Robb wasn’t here to keep things fair) He coaxed Rickon into eating her cooking, and the _necklace_ —he bought her the necklace.

It didn’t make sense. Any of it.

_“He loves you, he just doesn’t know how to show you.”_

That’s what Lyanna would tell her. After every prank, every heated argument, every barbed remark they would exchange back and forth. Sansa never believed her, just humored her with an “I know,” because afterwards, they’d usually go eat ice cream together, or some other sweet treat. Maybe she had actually been right all along. Sansa wonders what she would say now. Her absence aches now more than ever.

_(She always knew what to do.)_

Sansa looks over at her clock. It reads 2:37 am.

_(If I haven’t fallen asleep by now, I’m not sleeping at all.)_

She tiptoes out of bed quietly, sliding into her bunny slippers. Avoiding the creaking floorboards on her way down the hall and the stairs had become second nature over the summer. Thanks to the nightmares she had about Joffrey when she first got back, Sansa had become a night owl of sorts.

She hears the low murmuring of voices almost too late.

It’s coming from the kitchen, which is glowing dimly thanks to the single light flicked on. For a minute, Sansa thinks it’s Bran, who was prone to sleepwalking and even sleep _eating_ , but then she hears a familiar derisive snort, and realizes, with a jolt, that Jon had been a night owl nearly his entire life.

_(I really can’t catch a break.)_

“I didn’t _forget_ to call him. I just _didn’t_. That’s why I called you.”

He’s hunched over the island, sitting on the stool. He’s alone, and cradles a phone between his ear and shoulder. He’s otherwise preoccupied digging into the chocolate malted crunch ice cream. _Her_ ice cream.

But she can’t find it in herself to be irritated.

He looks really cute doing it.

His hair is all long and curly, and tucked behind his ears like it used to be, and he’s not _shirtless_ , but he’s wearing a sleeveless tank that may enable Sansa to forgive him for such an offense. When he looks up to find her at the door, he smiles. Just a little.

No, Sansa didn’t understand Jon Snow.

But maybe, for the sake of her sanity, it would benefit her to at least try.

_Did I wake you?_ He mouths, pointing to the phone.

“No.” She reassures him in a whisper, careful not to be too loud. “Couldn’t sleep anyway.”

Jon nods, like he gets it. Sansa knows he does. She moves behind him, taking a glass out of the cupboard. She fills it with water from the fridge. It’s ice cold, and refreshing down her throat. It also gives her a minute to think about what to do. To contemplate her next move.

The voice on the other end of the line is obviously a woman’s. It sounds like she’s letting him have it too. Sansa thinks Jon’s eyes are going to get stuck like that if he keeps rolling his eyes so much. His jaw is set.

“I’ll call him tomorrow. Tell him to keep his pants on.”

_Him_. Someone that Jon would get a root canal in lieu of having a conversation with. The king wasn’t such a bad theory. They probably weren’t on the best terms, considering the strain their relationship was probably putting on his marriage.

“I lost track of time.” He huffs, but it seems apologetic rather than exasperated. “I should have called you as soon as I got off the plane. I’m sorry, Rain.”

Rain. As in _Rhaenys?_

Sansa hops on to the island, curious. Jon looks at her. She takes the spoon from him, so it looks like she’s there for the ice cream rather than eavesdrop on his conversation. He glares at her, and whispers, “Not fair.” She smirks at him, popping a bite of ice cream in her mouth.

“You’re my little brother.” She hears from the other side of the line. Her voice is higher than Sansa had expected it to be, but television always warped everyone’s perception of celebrities. “It’s my job to worry obsessively over you. Egg has had to suffer it his whole life. You’re not exempt, Jaehaerys.”

_(She loves him.)_

_(Cares about him.)_

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Jon laughs. “I’ve kept you up for long enough. You have that breakfast thing with the president of Pentos, right?”

“Don’t _remind_ me.” The princess moans. “I’m going to die of absolute boredom.”

“You’re going to be great.” Jon says. Sansa can tell he believes it.

“I don’t really have much of a choice when it comes to that, do I?” There’s a beat of tense silence before she speaks again. “I miss you, Jon. Promise you’ll call on time tomorrow.”

“I promise.” He says. “Now get some sleep.”

“Alright.”

The call ends, and Jon lets his phone rest on the counter.

It occurs to Sansa that goodbyes might not run in the family.

“Thief.” Jon says, reaching back for the ice cream. Sansa holds it close, placing a foot on his stomach to keep him from coming closer. It’s firm. Hard. He’s wearing sweats.

She sees a print.

Her brain _flatlines._

“I can’t steal what’s already mine.” Her mouth feels like sandpaper. She takes another bite of ice cream to moisten it some. “Daddy bought it for me. If I had known you were gonna inhale it the moment my back was turned, I would have hid it better.”

“What was that thing that Nan used to say?” Jon asks, eyes sparkling. He’s close, too close. His hand is wrapped around the inside of her knee, and his skin is hot hot hot. He moves her leg aside easily. “After Arya used to rip the heads off of your Barbie dolls? _Sharing is caring?_ ”

“They were Bratz dolls.” Sansa bites out. “And if you want me to _share,_ I don’t think you should remind me of that.”

“Fair enough.” He laughs.

She lets the spoon fall into the ice cream carton and hands it to him, hoping then he’d back up and she could make an escape for her room, but he just smiles at her triumphantly, taking the carton and eats it right beside her.

He is even closer now.

The smell of him is overwhelming, but not in a bad way. Never in a bad way. Jon always smelled good. Like firewood, and snow, and that aftershave he’d been using since high school. If someone promised her a life’s supply of shoes from Yves Saint Laurent if she could describe Jon’s scent in under ten seconds, Sansa’s pretty sure she would say home. Which is...nonsensical. Stupid. _Distressing._

That’s what it is.

Distressing.

“So that was your sister?” She manages to ask the question without her voice cracking. She counts that as a win.

Jon exhales lowly. “Yep.”

“She wants you to come home?”

Jon looks at her, and it’s the most serious she’s seen him all day. “That’s not home.”

“No.” Sansa says softly. “It isn’t.”

A comfortable silence envelops them. They don’t have a lot of those. Sansa takes the time to digest all of the information she just learned. Jon and Rhaenys were close. She adored him. Truly. Really. They talk as if they’ve known each other their whole lives. It sinks in now, that he has an entire family that wasn’t theirs. Other people to share him with. Sansa wonders if he’d trade Christmas’ and summers and camping trips with them if it meant all that with Rhaenys and Aegon. His _actual_ family.

(But with the way Jon has reacted to her calling King’s Landing his home, Sansa knows the answer to that.)

(She’s _relieved_ that she does.)

“You’re wearing it.”

“What?”

“The necklace.” Jon says. His eyes flicker down to her chest, where the dragonfly sits. “You’re wearing it.”

“That’s what people usually do with jewelry.” Samsa argues defensively, resisting the urge to reach up and cover it. “Was I not supposed to?”

“No. It’s just—” Jon hesitates, running a hand through his hair. “You like it. That’s good. I wasn’t sure after—”

She blushes, remembering her major existential breakdown earlier, one that had been happening up until a few minutes ago. It probably still was, considering the way her heart was hammering away in her chest. “I said I liked it,”

Jon reaches up, and for a bizarre, frightening minute, she thinks he’s going to caress her face. Or stroke her cheek. He does neither of these things, and instead adjusts the chain of the necklace, bringing the pendant front and center again.

“You don’t always mean what you say.”

“I mean, yeah, but—.” Sansa breaks off, swallowing. “I meant it that time. I _do._ ”

She picks at the hem of her silk pajama shorts, not daring to look up at him with how hot her face felt. He bumps his hip against her knee. When he speaks, she can hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah?”

She _has_ to look up. “Yeah.”

And this is something else she’s figured out when it comes to Jon Snow:

This smile is just for her.

He is looking at her like he looked at her earlier, when everyone was inspecting the soup. Like he’s uncertain, and certain all at the same time. Like he knows that she’s going to take time to figure out, and he’s willing to hide that time. But he would. Eventually.

(Maybe eventually, she’d let him.)

Jon bites the inside of his cheek, tugging on her braid. “You’re a hard girl to please.”

Sansa smacks his hand away.“Tell me something I don’t know.” The hand that’s resting on the counter a few inches away from her catches her attention. She points to the tattoo. “Tell me about this.”

She can see one side of it, it’s definitely an animal of some kind, a well drawn one at that. all hard dark lines and gray smudges and the fur—how did they make the fur look like that? Jon tucks his arm behind his back, the tips of his ears flushing.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Oh come _on.”_ Sansa doesn’t buy it for one second. She pokes him in the chest. “ I _know_ you have a story, Jon. Nice boys don’t get tattoos like that.”

Jon rears back, insulted. “Nice? I’m not _nice_.”

“Jon, you make kids eat their vegetables. You buy girls jewelry.” Sansa says pointedly, lifting up her necklace as an example. He winces. “You’re one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met.”

“ _You_ of all people? You’re calling me nice.”

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re still an _asshole_.” Sansa promises, undoing her braid. She runs her hands through hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. “But like...not a womanizing one. There’s levels, y’know?”

“Thanks….” Jon frowns. “I think.”

She bounces his knee impatiently. “Are you gonna tell me or what?”

“It’s _stupid_.”

“Try me.”

Jon lets out an exasperated sigh, but finally lays his forearm in her lap so that she can see that tattoo. It’s a the head of a direwolf, facing sideways. It’s incredibly and surprisingly lifelike. She’d never seen anyone with tattoos before but her Uncle Benjen, and this was cooler than anything he had ever showed her. Without thinking, she runs her thumb along the almond of its eye. It’s glowing red.

As beautiful as it is, it doesn’t have her attention for long.

Jon’s breath stirs her hair, that is how close he is now. Her knees brush his stomach. If she moved even the slightest bit, her nose would brush his forehead. If he shifted his hand just so, his pinky finger would dip between her thighs. His thumb would be underneath the hem of her shorts—

Absolutely not.

_Absolutely_ not.

“It was after finals freshman year.” He explains, completely oblivious to the mental breakdown she was quietly having. “I went out drinking with some people to celebrate. It was a stupid dare I came to regret in the morning.”

“It’s not totally stupid.” Her voice sounds wrong, a little too high pitched and embarrassingly breathy. She clears her throat. “It’s kinda badass, honestly.”

Jon smirks. She’s about tired of that smirk, and it’s only the second time she’s seen it all day. It _really_ doesn’t help current matters. “Hell has officially frozen over. Sansa Stark thinks I’m _cool_.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re still annoying.” Sansa shoots back, pushing at his shoulder.

He snickers, but doesn’t budge, and reaches for her stomach to tickle her. She tries to dart off the island, but he catches her around the middle.

“Jon, stop! I’m serious!” Sansa pleads between giggles, trying to squirm her way to freedom. It only brings her closer to his chest, and as much as she tries to elbow her way out, he catches her every time. “Get off of me!”

“Only if you admit it.” Jon demands. “I’m the coolest person you’ve ever met. The coolest and the _nicest._ ”

She breaks down quickly. Easily. She was impervious to almost everything, but tickle fights weren’t one of those things. “Alright!” She gasps. “You’re the coolest person I’ve ever met.”

Jon’s hand slips under her shirt threateningly. “And?”

“The nicest. The coolest and nicest person I’ve ever met!”

“Thank you.” He says smugly, setting her back down on the floor. He adjusts her necklace, which was slightly askew. “You should remember I said that next time you call me _ensembley challenged._ ”

She glares, adjusting her pajamas accordingly. “Or maybe _you_ should keep that in mind when you’re shopping in the dumpster behind the Salvation Army. I’d be more than happy to give you some pointers.”

That godsdamned smirk dims just the slightest bit. It appeases her some.“Has anyone ever told you what a delight you are?”

Sansa smiles sweetly, patting his cheek. “I’m just _amazing_ like that, remember?”

“Yeah.” Jon’s eyes soften the slightest bit. “I guess so.”

Sansa’s breath hitches.

( _Oh no.)_

“I have a thing.” Sansa blurts, edging towards the exit of the kitchen.

Jon blinks. “Another thing?”

“To pee.” Sansa amends, snapping her fingers. She points upstairs. “I have to pee.”

“Alright…” Jon trails off, “I’m not stopping you.”

“Duh! I know that! I know!” Sansa says, laughing off key. “I just...guess this means goodnight.”

“Okay.” Jon shrugs. “Night then.”

The words haven’t even fully left his mouth before Sansa is power walking towards the stairs. She does not bother with trying to look normal. She runs back into her room, shuts the door, and slides down against it, head in between her knees.

“Gods.” She curses aloud, pulling at her hair. “I’m totally _buggin’.”_

***

“Are you guys gonna do anything else all summer?”

It’s 11 in the morning, and Jeyne and Sansa are in her room, taking Alys’ measurements for their latest skirt design. Arya leans up against the door frame, watching them.

Sansa sighs. “Do you need something Arya?”

She crosses her arms, eyes darting suspiciously at Jeyne and Alys. “Dad says no one is supposed to be over while Jon is staying with us.”

“I already cleared it with Dad.” Sansa says, rolling up her measuring tape. That’s what happens when you ask for permission before you do things.”

She had, even before Jon arrived. It had taken loads of guilt tripping, and puppy dog eyes, but Ned had allowed it in the end. It was how Sansa was allowed to tell them about Jon in the first place. She had sworn them to complete secrecy.

Arya isn’t convinced. “If everyone finds out that Jon’s here and he has to go back to King’s Landing I’ll never forgive you.”

Jeyne looks up from her notebook. “Can you like, go away? Don’t you have bugs to eat, or something?”

Arya fumes. “Don’t you have someone’s life to ruin with your big fat mouth?”

“Arya.” Sansa interrupts. She can feel both of them gathering the steam for another one of their land razing arguments. And once they started, they wouldn’t stop until one of them was in tears or six feet under. “Don’t make me call Daddy.”

That does the trick. Arya pushes off the door frame, and stomps off. When Sansa asks her to come back and close the door, she just gives her the finger, and jogs downstairs.

“Ugh!” Jeyne slams the notebook down on the desk, taking her glasses off. “It’s like she’s a million times more annoying ever since that Michael kid broke up with her.”

“Micah.” Sansa corrects automatically, setting the measuring tape down. “And he didn’t break up with her. He had to move away. It’s not like he had much of a choice.”

“Maybe she’d be nicer if she had a boyfriend again.” Alys offers, stepping off of the stool.

_Hm._ Sansa purses her lips. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“One we can talk about another day. We have one goal right now, and one goal only.” Jeyne says, and when she turns to Sansa, she has a wicked glint in her eye. “How goes phase one of our operation, Agent Stark?”

“Don’t call it an operation.” Sansa says. She lifts the fabric they planned to use for the skirt—black suede—up as if she was inspecting it to cover her heated face. “It sounds manipulative.”

“You’re no fun.” She hears Alys say, and suddenly, the fabric is snatched from her grip. “Spill it. Did we get anywhere at all yesterday?”

“We haven’t killed each other.” Sansa mumbles.. “Sounds like a pretty good start to me.”

“That doesn’t sound very nice.” Jeyne chastises.

“I was nice!” Sansa says. “We...we talked last night.”

She had already decided not to tell them about the necklace, and had made sure to hide it underneath the neckline of her sundress. But she had to give them _something,_ or they’d know everything. Jeyne and Alys sniffing out a secret was like a dog finding a bone.

And there was no way she was telling them about her relapse in her unfortunate attraction to Jon.

They’d never let it go.

“Night?” Alys prompts, waggling her eyebrows. “As in the opposite of day?”

“Night, the time when people are usually ripping each other’s clothes off, Night?” Jeyne asks.

Sansa blushes, and her mind betrays her with flashes of Jon’s arm across her thigh, and his hand on her stomach and the inside of her knee. She shakes her head, as if to jostle the images out of her mind. “That’s not what we were doing! We just...talked.”

Jeyne and Alys shriek in unison, holding onto each other as they bounce around the room in excitement, slapping each other and babbling nonsensically. Jeyne makes a bunch of vague thrusting movements that cause Sansa to swear, and Alys dissolves in a fit of giggles on the white leather couch near the window.

“I’m serious!” Sansa shouts. “That’s all we did!”

“Please, you’re _blushing_ like a schoolgirl.” Jeyne accuses.

“I _am_ a school girl!” Sansa cries.

“Whatever!” Alys says dismissively, finally regaining her composure. “We need details.”

“Well…” Sansa fumbles, crossing her legs. “I overheard him on the phone with the princess last night. They’re close. You can tell she really loves him.”

“That’s good for us.” Jeyne acknowledges. Alys hums in agreement. “It means he has her ear.”

“Oh! And he showed me the tattoo.” Sansa says, hoping this would please them, as they’d been just as curious as her as to what it was. “It’s a direwolf. He says he got it as a dare.”

“A direwolf, oooh.” Alys says, resting her chin in her hand. “Not very princely.”

“But _sexy_ all the same.” Jeyne declares. “So? Did he show you anything else?”

Sansa tilts her head, dumbfounded. “What else would he have to show me?”

“Gee, I don’t know, his dick?”

(Alright.)

(Maybe they already knew.)

Alys wheezes, and Sansa takes the fluffy pillow that rests on her armchair near her vanity, aiming for Jeyne’s face. She dodges it easily, and with glee. Sansa chokes back a laugh. “You’re _disgusting._ ”

“I swear by the old gods and the new, Sansa, if you keep it up like this you’re going to die a virgin with cobwebs on your panties!”

“I’m supposed to be making _nice_ with Jon so he gives Rhaenys our designs!” Sansa says. “Not seducing him so he can deflower me!”

“There’s no rule against multitasking.” Alys winks.

“No. But I refuse to.” Sansa says stubbornly. “I am not having sex with Jon.”

She’s saying it to them as much as she’s saying it to herself.

“I hear what you’re saying. I get it. But I don’t think _you_ do.” Jeyne says, sitting up. “This is a potential penetrative orgasm we’re talking about. You _deserve_ that! I want that for you!”

(Jeyne often talked about penetrative orgasms as if they were just as rare and beautiful as unicorns.)

(Sansa really hated Theon for being her best friend’s sexual awakening.)

(She feels her resolve start to weaken the tiniest bit.)

“Jeyne.” Alys sighs. “Sansa says she’s not going to have sex with Jon.”“We have to respect her wishes—”

“Thank you!” Sansa breaks in.

“—No matter how stupid those wishes are.”

“Hey!”

“Well I’m just saying!” Alys shrugs, shifting on the couch to get a little closer to the window. “Oh Sansa, just _look_ at him.”

She really shouldn’t.

(She ventures to the window anyway, and Jeyne follows.)

They’re looking out into the backyard. Bran and Rickon are splashing around in the pool, wrestling. Arya’s messing around with the boombox under the cabana, and Jon—

Jon is stepping out of the pool.

He’s slightly tan from spending the summer down south, and he’s every bit muscular as he appears to be in clothes. But it’s not too much, because he’s all lean, and when he reaches up to push his hair out of his face, his back muscles flex. His shoulders are broad. Entirely too broad for his own good. When he turns around, Sansa notes that he still hasn’t shaved completely, but he’s trimmed a little. His swimshorts are black (of course) and low slung, and unsurprisingly—

The print makes a reappearance.

“Woah, baby.” Jeyne breathes

“I _know._ ” Alys groans.

“He’s trying to kill me.” Sansa hisses.

And then he looks right up at them.

Sansa, Jeyne, and Alys fly to the floor for cover, falling all over each other in an effort to get the farthest away from the window.

“Do you think he saw us?” Alys asks, eyes wide,

“Of course he _saw_ us!” Jeyne snaps frantically, head in her hands. “We were practically drooling over him in plain view for everyone to see!”

“Maybe not!” Sansa says, desperate to cling on to any sort of hope. Her fingers felt cold. “I mean, he could have just been like, thinking and looking off into the distance! Maybe he didn’t see us.”

“If he didn’t see us he’s fucking _blind_!” Jeyne whisper shouts.

“He’s gone.” Alys announces.

“What?” Sansa asks, scrambling to get to the window.

She was right. There was no Jon in sight.

“He was getting out of the pool.” Jeyne says. “He’d be gone if he didn’t catch us anyway. That doesn’t really say anything.”

“Well, maybe he just went on to do whatever it was he was going to do.” Alys says. “I mean, what’s else is he gonna do? Call the cops on us for being creeps?”

“I wasn’t being creepy.” Sansa exclaims. “You’re the one that pulled _me_ into this mess.”

Alys throws up her hands. “Oh, so now we’re pointing fingers?”

“I mean, yeah—”

A knock sounds at the door.

They all freeze.

“Who is it?” Sansa calls out, voice level despite her trembling fingers.

She already fucking knows who it is, that’s why.

“Jon.”

They all exchange a look.

She knows she doesn’t really have much of a choice.

Sansa smooths her face into the most bored, vacant expression she can muster, fanning herself to keep the blush at bay, and cracks open the door ever so slightly.

It is Jon. Just as half naked as he was in the backyard. But Sansa is currently suffering the consequences of looking her fill now, and stares determinedly into his eyes. The innocent, aloof expression he is wearing doesn’t fool her one bit, because he was _here._

He knew.

He fucking knew.

“Hey.”

“Can I help you?” She says coolly.

The left corner of his mouth quirks up.

(He knows.)

(He fucking knows.)

“Bran, Arya, and Rickon are talking about pizza for lunch.You guys want?”

“No, we do not.” Sansa says. “We’re not trying to poison and fatten up our bodies with grease, unlike some people.”

“Wait a minute, it does look like your filling out a bit there,” Jon says, pinching at her sides.

“You’re all _wet_ get off!” Sansa steps back in an effort to get away, and the small crack her body had made widens. Jon uses this opportunity to step in. She tries to grab his arm to pull him back, but she’s too late.

It’s almost like watching a car crash.

Jon waves. “Hey girls.”

Alys and Jeyne sit on the bed, the most quiet she had ever seen them. Alys’ mouth kept opening and closing, while Jeyne just kept blinking, as if as long as she kept doing it, he’d eventually go away. Despite this, they both chorus “Hey Jon” in the same thunderstruck, dreamlike tone.

_(He’s never gonna let me live this down.)_

“You guys want any pizza?” Jon asks. “My treat.”

“Sure.” They sigh.

“Great. It’s good to see you guys still have taste buds.” Jon smirks, and turns to leave. But before he does, he stops in front of Sansa, leaning in so that only she can hear. His breath fans across her cheek.

“Guess your friends think I’m pretty cool too.”

Sansa’s cheeks _burn._ “You’re dripping all over my carpet. Get out.”

Jon chuckles. It is a sound that echoes down the hallway, long after she slams the door on his back, and it shimmies down her spine. She kicks at the puff that she sits on to do her makeup at her vanity, resisting the urge to let out a tiny embarrassed scream.

“Thanks a lot for your help back there!” Sansa says snidely. “Now his head’s gonna be even _bigger_ from now on.”

They both seem to be coming out of their daze. Alys falls back against the bed, rubbing at her red face, and Jeyne actually lets out a hysterical laugh, before clapping her hands over her mouth.

“What?” Sansa demands.

“Nothing.” Jeyne shrugs, smirking. “It’s just...you know what they say about big heads.”

Alys cackles, and Jeyne can’t keep it in for much longer either, and seconds later, they’re holding each other up, gasping for air. Despite herself, Sansa wheezes out a laugh too, but not before throwing another throw pillow at them.

“I am going to fucking _kill_ you guys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me more about the story @jeynesgreyjoy on tumblr, where I shitpost about it under my tag “clueless” and whine about my writing progress.  
> Favorite parts? Lines? Characters? I wanna hear it all! Drop a comment and let me know! Thanks for reading!


	4. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To say being back at home with the Starks doesn’t require Jon to adjust, or change—
> 
> That would be a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS! You guys came in clutch with the 25 comments, so here it is. But first, 3 more things:  
> 1\. There’s a bit of angst towards the end, just a little. That wasn’t planned, but I watched a movie that made me super emotional and I figured the angst would give chapter 5 that OOMF! That ZEST!  
> 2\. I’m going to do a double update for chapter 5 as well!!! It’s where the story starts moving along and I’m really excited to write it, and I think I should take advantage of that feeling since I have the time. Same drill as before, but I’m gonna settle for 20 comments since this is short. Do that, and chapter 5 will be up within the next few days!  
> 3\. As always, thank you for all of the love and support you guys have given me! I read every single comment I get on here (sometimes more than once) and they all help motivate me. Enjoy this chapter!

**Jon**

To say being back at home with the Starks doesn’t require Jon to adjust, or change—

That would be a lie.

Yes, in some part, it’s like he’s never left. His room is still pretty much the same, and him and Arya still stay up to obscene hours of the night talking about anything and everything and Bran still tries to beat him at video games and he’s still chasing Rickon around the house but—

But—

There are still some things that hurt too much.

He still can’t go down to the end of hall all the way on the third floor because that was where his mother slept. He tries to avoid the garden as much as possible because that was where she spent most of her time and every single morning, without _fail_ , he wakes up, stupidly expecting she’ll be sitting at the island, drinking coffee and failing at the daily crossword.

And she isn’t.

She never is.

It also doesn’t help that Jon isn’t allowed to go anywhere else, even to escape and catch his breath for a little while. This home he adored was quickly turning into a prison. Arya tried to be home all of the time, for his sake, but she had soccer practice. Rickon was constantly being driven to every extramural sport available in the area by Osha because being inside for too long made his ADHD act up. Bran was always with Jojen Reed working on some secret project that Arya liked to call Operation Nerd, and Sansa—

That was just a bad idea all around.

(Because her emotions left him in _constant_ fucking whiplash. First she was kind of nice and funny, like that night in the kitchen, and then she was downright pissy at him because he had caught _her_ and her friends gawking at him like he was a GQ model—which had been hilarious, and definitely the highlight of his week— and now she was just _distant._ Never at home, always somewhere with her friends and when she was home, she was in her room, on the phone. The only time he _really_ saw her was in their adjoined bathroom, when they were brushing their teeth and even then, he’s speechless to think of anything to say against her derisive remarks, because he’s too busy trying not to look at her legs, which go on for like, _miles_ in these silk pajama shorts, or one time, this nightgown—

It’s not a good idea, is all Jon’s saying.)

School wouldn’t be starting for two weeks. His new place wouldn’t be ready until halfway through the next. So he was stuck reading all of the books from the syllabus Ned had acquired from his professors, and staring up at the ceiling in boredom. He couldn’t even go into the fucking driveway to get the _newspaper_ . Bronn and Jory were constantly cycling back and forth from playing warden. Nan tried to entertain him sometimes, but her idea of fun was watching _Let’s make a deal_ and _Family Feud_ reruns. He was stuck staring at a book most days, waiting for anyone to come home.

On his fourth day of carrying on like this, he’s finished all of the books and has resolved to glaring up at the ceiling ruefully when Robb suddenly FaceTimes him. Desperate to hear anyone’s voice that wasn’t from a TV, Jon answers. “Hey.”

“Dude!” Robb shouts, smiling. His hair is wet, and sticks to his forehead. He’s outside, with headphones on. If Jon had to guess, he was just coming back from practice. “It’s so _weird_ seeing you there while I’m here.”

“It’s definitely taking some getting used to.” He had never lived in the Stark house without Robb before, and his absence was something he felt too. They tried to text and talk as often as they could, but Robb was in the middle of potentially being drafted, and couldn’t afford any distractions, including Jon whining about his problems. Although Robb wouldn’t have agreed.

“It’s like a gods damned amusement park here, and term hasn’t even started.” Robb groans. “I’d say I’d kill to be you, but house arrest doesn’t sound too pleasant.”

“It fucking sucks.” Jon admits.

“You’ll be out soon, and then you’ll be begging for it back.” Robb promises, giving him a look. “Dad’s gonna work you to the bone. And between school? Let’s hope you don’t die of exhaustion.”

Anything was better than being stuck here for much longer, and that was what he had came home for. “I’m ready.”

Robb laughs. “You better be. Why do you think I took the first soccer scholarship I saw?”

Before Jon can say anything back, there’s the sound of sharp clicking coming down the stairs, followed by the sound of popping, and sure enough, Sansa is rounding the bannister of the stairs, her fluffy white purse thrown over her shoulder.

“Hey.” She says, strutting towards him. Another pop. She’s chewing bubblegum, and she makes even _that_ look like an effortless art. Her lips are a glossy, sticky pink that probably be illegal. The white top she’s wearing is cropped, showing off her smooth pale stomach.

His mouth dries. “Hey.”

“Who’s that?” Robb questions curiously.

Sansa’s face brightens when she hears it, as Jon wasn’t wearing any headphones. “Is that Robb?”

The word yes isn’t even out of his mouth before Sansa sits down on the couch beside him, snatching the phone away from him. “Robb! It’s Sansa!”

Jon tries to muster up a glare to shoot at her, but the smile she wears on her face is so genuine, so excited to see Robb that his heart slightly skips a beat.

(He really couldn’t bring himself to be mad when she was being so cute.)

Robb’s answer is just as cheerful. “Sans! I was just about to call you.”

“Does that mean I’m your favorite sister today?”

“You’re always my favorite sister.” Robb tells her seriously. “Arya is too.”

Sansa pouts, heaving a sigh. “That’s not how it works, Robert. Tell him Jon.”

She leans in close to him again, so he’s in view of the camera. She smells like lavender, and bubblegum. It’s irritating how distracting it is. Jon gulps. “I guess that’s not how it works.”

Robb raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Now _this_ is an interesting development. Does this mean you two are getting along? Playing nice?”  


“Jon didn’t tell you?” Sansa asks.

For a heart stuttering moment, Jon thinks she’s gonna talk about that moment in the foyer when he first came home and he was practically drooling over her. She had _definitely_ noticed, he knew she did, as much as she tried to play it off and if Robb found out—

He’d be six feet under.

“We’re gonna have a sleepover tonight and braid each other’s hair.” She whispers conspiratorially into the phone. “Last night, he read me the _best_ bedtime story: the life and death of Karl Marx.”

Jon lets out a breath of relief he hadn’t realized he had been holding, and Robb chastises Sansa for the rib. It does nothing to deter her snickering, and she pushes off of the couch, nearly falling over herself in laughter.

“That was so hilarious I forgot to laugh.” Jon deadpans, irritation settling in now that the panic was gone.

“Not everyone understands true comedy.” Sansa demures sweetly in a mocking curtsy.

There’s a vibrating sound that comes from the mic, and Robb curses. “Shit, that’s my coach. He’s got news. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yeah.” Jon sigh. _Alone again._ “For sure.”

“Bye Robb!” Sansa calls.

“Bye Sans!”

The screen goes black, and the call drops dead.

Sansa opens her purse and digs inside. Remembering her remark from earlier, Jon snorts. “What’d you do? Skin a collie to make your bag?”

“It’s _faux_ , you jerk.” She scowls at him, and turns on her heel to head to the kitchen. “Totally harmless.”

“I’m sure.” Jon says. He has nothing else better to do, and she’s actually talking to him for a change, so he follows her. “Heading out?”

Sansa nods, grabbing her keys off the kitchen table. “I have an ASB meeting at school, and then I’m heading to the movies with Jeyne and Alys.”

ASB. That was some sort of student council thing. Jon hadn’t known she was gonna be attending school locally this year. “You’re not going back down South for school?”

Her face flickers with something Jon can’t describe, but it’s gone before he is able to place it. “I’d rather finish my senior year at home with my friends.”

“Oh.” There’s clearly more to it than that, but this conversation was already teetering on the edge of an argument. He doesn’t wanna push her any further. So he just says, “Cool.”  


Sansa falters for a minute, pursing her lips. She fingers at her necklace, the necklace _he_ had gotten her on her neck. He can’t remember a time since he’s been here that she’s taken it off.

(That pleases him a lot more than it should.)

“You’ll be okay here?”

Like most days, Sansa leaving would mean Jon would be left to his own devices once again, and dying of boredom. Had he really been so insufferable, that even _she_ noticed?

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, hunching his shoulders defensively. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

Sansa rolls her eyes, blushing. “I know _that_. I was asking just if you wanted me to stay, in case you wanted to hang out...or something.”

Jon knows that someone probably put her up to this, out of pity, maybe Ned, but he still thinks about it, for a moment. For the briefest of seconds. Hanging out with Sansa. Rickon was at wrestling, Bran was with Jojen, Arya was playing soccer, and Ned was at court. They’d have the house to themselves. _Hang out._ What did that even mean, when it came to Sansa? It’s not like she’d be down for playing a video game, and he sure as hell wasn’t gonna pick up a sewing needle. He supposes they could watch a movie but—

But then Sansa drops her keys on accident, and when she sighs and reaches down to pick them up her skirt rises up a little. And then a little more. And then a little more, and there’s a flash of lace that cannot be mistaken for anything else, dark gray lace—

A movie.

He would _not_ be paying attention to that hypothetical fucking movie at all.

“Nope! Nope. I’m good.” Jon chokes out, a little to hoarsely when she stands back up. “You go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

Sansa narrows her eyes. Jon is suddenly aware that he’d literally just said he’d rather be alone than hang out with her, but it’s too late. “Whatever. Arya will be home from practice soon, anyway.”

_(Fuck.)_

“Okay.” Jon mumbles instead of apologizing, which was what he really wants to do but he knows that it will mean nothing to her now.

“Alright.” Sansa flips her hair, shouldering her purse. The nonchalant, aloof expression has settled back into place, and she pushed a pair of no doubt designer sunglasses on to her eyes. “I’m Audi.”

She doesn’t even wait for a response, strutting away.

When he hears the door slam shut, Jon finally lets his eyes fall shut with a groan, running a hand over his face. All he can picture is lace, gray lace and long legs and pale skin and honestly—

He needs to get a fucking grip.

“She’s going to kill me,” he says aloud, to no one in particular.

***

“I’m home!” Arya shouts half an hour later, slamming the door. “Jon?”

“Upstairs!” He had moved up to his room some time ago. He had gotten bored of rifling through the DVR recordings, which was just a whole bunch of MTV garbage, so he resorted to looking up the reviews of the teachers he’d have for his classes.

There’s a crash, and the harsh stomps of her coming up the stairs. His door slams open, and Arya jumps on the bed, jostling his laptop and nearly making it fall off the bed. Jon shouts, but she just musses up his hair in response.

“Sansa’s not here?”

“Nope.” Jon closes his laptop and sets it safely on his nightstand. “Something about the movies with Alys and Jeyne.”

“Good. The minions of the Stranger will keep her busy for awhile.” Arya says. She’s still wearing her soccer uniform, and her knees are dirty and have several bandaids on them. “I have an idea.”

Jon perks up. Anything was better than sitting around like this for much longer. “I’m listening.”

“Let’s sneak out.”

He blinks. _“What?”_

Arya bounces up, seemingly nonplussed by the incredulity and doubt in his tone. “Let’s go get lunch.”

“I can’t _leave._ ” Jon hisses, eyes darting around to make sure neither Bronn or Jory magically appeared in front of the closet at the mention of him going outside. “I’m not allowed.”

Arya pushes at his shoulder. “That’s why I said sneak out, idiot. Ever heard of breaking the rules?”

Of course Jon _broke_ the rules. He ditched the occasional class. Him, Robb, and Theon smoked their first joint in this very room right under Ned’s nose. He had snuck into the club where Theon’s band used to play with a fake ID all of the time. Not to mention that him just being here instead of King’s Landing was a major fucking rule that he had broken.

Jon _broke_ rules.

He just wasn’t sure about breaking this one.

“Your dad would _kill_ me.” He emphasizes. “ _My_ dad would kill me.”  


“Only if we get caught!”

“I literally have two shadows hired to follow my every fucking move. How would we _not_ get caught?”

“One shadow.” Arya corrects. “The one who’s kind of a smart ass is on break until 8. I overheard Jory on the phone.”

And Jon has to think about it.

Even if he _did_ agree to this, the chances of getting caught were less with only one guard. Especially Jory. He was obviously new at his job. Maybe they could get away with it. _Maybe._

But he still shakes his head.

“Don’t tell me all that time down South has turned you chickenshit..” Arya says. “We’ll be gone thirty minutes. An hour max. Nobody will even realize we’re gone!”

Jory _did_ only check in every two hours. If they didn’t go far, it could work. Nobody would ever know. And then he wouldn’t step a toe out of line for the rest of the week.

Arya’s face grows uncharacteristically serious, and she nudges him. “Figured you could use a change of scenery. A tiny break.”

Gods, did he ever.

Jon had missed home while he was away, yes. He had missed it more than anything. But it still hurt, being here when everywhere he turned there was a memory he had with his mother. And maybe that was his fault. Maybe if he had just stayed, tried to live with the pain, and take it one day at a time, his memories wouldn’t be so saturated in her. But he didn’t, and in an attempt to get away from something else, he had submerged himself back in it all again.

(And Arya always knew.)

So Jon sighs. “How would we even leave without him noticing?”

Arya grins.

It’s as good as a yes to her.

“Don’t you remember, Snow? I know a thing or two about sneaking around.”

***

It turns out that yes, Arya does know a thing or two about sneaking around.

They kill time waiting for Jory to come in and do his 3:00 check in by giving Arya time to wash all the dirt and grime off from practice, and Jon to find a suitable disguise—a crannogmen baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses. (It seemed a little lackluster at first, but Arya promised him where they were going wasn’t going to be full of people anyway) After scaling the tree outside of Bran’s window and hopping the fence, they’re out of the house, and walking around the neighborhood.

Jon had really underestimated Arya, which was rare for him to do of all people. She had put a lot of thought into this plan. She gets one of her friends, Edric, to lend them his car. He looked loathed to do so, but more scared to deny Arya anything, which was kind of hilarious. Soon enough, Jon is behind the wheel for the first time in what felt like ages and Arya is whooping victoriously in the passenger seat with the window rolled down and blasting her Sand Snakes CD at full volume.“Never doubt me again.” She says smugly.

(He won’t. He’s learned his lesson.)

After sending in Arya for food rather than going through a drive thru (those had cameras, after all) They stop at a familiar hiking trail that Jon could have sworn that him and Uncle Benjen did at least _once_. Instead of following the path, Arya leads him to a fence that says do not trespass in the biggest red font, hands him the food, and proceeds to climb it.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” Jon bleats.

“I thought you were done doubting me?” Arya reminds him after she’s safe and back on the ground. “Come on _old man._ I know you’re not as nimble as you used to be.”

“I’m 20 years old.”

“Geezer!”

Jon heaves a helpless sigh.

_(I’m already here.)_

He climbs the damn fence.

They find themselves at a lake. The way the sun comes down on it makes it shimmer, and the only sounds that can be heard for miles are the rustling of the trees and the birds chirping. It looks so untouched, so wild, Jon could have easily believed he’d been transported to a different time.

“How’d you find this place, anyway?” He asks, once they make a makeshift picnic blanket out of his hoodie, and start eating.

“Micah always took me here to skip rocks.” Arya answers through chews. “He went to a summer camp here one time. They shut it down cuz this kid drowned.”

Jon pops a fry in his mouth. “How romantic.”

She grins wistfully. “Yeah. I thought so.”

Arya hadn’t told him much about Micah, just that they were dating and that he was her best friend. Jon supposed that was his fault for being gone for so long. She had called to cry to him when she found out he was moving away though, and as much as Jon hated to hear her so distraught, he was glad she still knew she could come to him. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Me too.”

He gives her the same advice Rhaenys gave to him when he confessed to her about Ygritte. “There’ll be others.”

“I know.” She sighs. “Just not anytime soon.”

“There’s no rush.”

Arya shakes her head in an effort to compose herself, wiping a smear of mustard that had gotten on her cheek. “Whatever. I don’t wanna talk about that.” She punches his shoulder. “I’ve let you hold out on me long enough. Tell me everything about your family and King’s landing.”

She had been pretty lenient with him, and extremely forgiving considering he hadn’t told her anything in the first place. Jon knew she was still a little hurt about that. So he does what should have done in the first place: he lets it all out.

Arya had always been a good listener, although she could be a little judgemental at times. She tries at least a little to hold back her laughter when Jon had told her about all the black tie events and brunches. But she doesn’t talk except to ask necessary questions. She allows Jon to rant about the crowdedness of the city, and the pretentiousness of the court, and she smiles when he tells her about Rain, Egg, Dany, and Arianne. Arya’s face screws up in anger when he talks about the fights he had with his father, and as much as Jon was getting angry when reliving it, the knot in his chest lessens the more he talks about it.

“Who’d you go all Rocky on, anyway?” Arya asks.

Jon had left out the fact that the fight he had gotten into was with Joffrey because that was one of the conditions of the fragile Targaryen truce with the Lannisters. He wasn’t supposed to even _think_ about what happened. So he just says, “Someone important.”

Luckily, she drops it at that.

“Rhaegar sounds like a dick.” She says in disgust. “Gods, imagine being married to him. That woman really is a saint.”

Arya had been wary of the Queen at first, but once she found out how instrumental Elia had been in Jon being allowed to come home, it doesn’t take her long to recant her opinion.

“I know.”

“And for all that to happen on her _birthday—_ ” Arya breaks off, making a sound of contempt. “The Baelish Independent has some fucking balls. The people who told them are even worse scum.”

Jon agreed. It was amazing how Elia took everything in stride. His existence (even if it had taken some time) Him coming to court. The relationship he developed with her children. Sure, he had been exposed at the party, but hurting the Queen and her image was probably just as much of a goal. He was glad she didn’t give them the satisfaction.

“You guys still don’t know who did it?” Arya asks.

Funnily enough, Jon hadn’t thought about it since he left King’s Landing. But he didn’t think this was something Rhaegar would let go. “Nobody’s told me anything.”

“Don’t you have any ideas, at least?”

The prime minister had always been his main suspect, but he had no reason to reveal the information. Maybe if the Joffrey thing had happened before, but it hadn’t. With the way that he was so quick to try to find a common ground with Rhaegar, Jon somehow knew for sure he would be the last person to try to make an enemy of the royal family.

Jon sighs. “I don’t know. It wasn’t exactly known information. The person who did it would have had to been someone at court.”

“So someone at the party?”

“Probably.”

“That sure narrows it down.” Arya says sarcastically. “There was like what, 900 people there? We’re gonna have to do better than that.”

“ _We_ don’t have to do anything.” Jon says firmly. “I don’t care who did it. It’s done now.”

Sure, it sucked, but what more could he do about it? He was bound to have to come forward and claim his title at some point. And as much as the way it had to happen was beyond shitty, what would finding the person who did this do for him? It probably wasn’t even personal. Just a part of their southern games of gossip and deceit.

Well, Jon didn’t want to play.

“I can’t believe you aren’t curious at all.” Arya complains. “If it were me, I’d do anything and everything to find the person who fucked me over like this.”

“Good thing it isn’t.” To lighten the mood, Jon throws a fry at her. “I’d probably have to bail you out of jail, and I don’t think they have jumpsuits that small.”

Arya scowls, shoving him, and Jon has to stick out his hand to keep from falling over. His stomach hurts from laughing so much. Soon enough, Arya is laughing too.

“Excited for school?” He feels like shit for monopolizing all of their time talking about him and their problems.

“Oh, I’m just _trembling_ with anticipation.” Arya drawls flatly, crossing her ankles.

“It can’t be _that_ bad.”

“Oh but it _is._ ” She insists. “As if high school already isn’t absolute bullshit, I have to go to the same one as _Sansa_ .”  


When Sansa had left for boarding school, Arya had just been about to enter high school. When they were in elementary and middle school, everyone referred to her as Sansa’s little sister, and were quite surprised to find out the two couldn’t be more different. Meaning Sansa was the gracious, ever so helpful teacher’s pet, and Arya was the type to question everything and wasn’t the best at following directions. Arya always felt like Sansa had set her up for failure.

“Yeah I caught that.” Jon says. “What happened to King’s Landing? Thought she was gonna graduate from Blackwater prep.”

And he catches it.

The flash of _something_ on Arya’s face. It’s unsettling, how he can’t read it. She hunches her shoulders in, and pulls her knees into her chest.

“I don’t think I should say.”

_(What the fuck?)_

“What do you mean?”

“I…..”Arya presses her lips thin. “Something happened with her ex. That’s all I can say. It—it’s not my story to tell.”

Her ex. Jon vaguely remembered a boyfriend that she talked about on Instagram. He was always in her comments, and everyone was always gushing over how cute they were.

(That had also not so coincidentally been when he stopped going on Instagram all together.)

(He really wishes he hadn’t.)

What was so bad that she ended up coming home? The south was always her dream. It was all she thought about at one point. She seemed alright, normal to him, but she did seem different. More determined. More grounded in reality rather than having her head in the clouds. And that look, that look she had given him earlier when he asked her about King’s Landing—

Jon doesn’t know what to think.

Just as he is contemplating whether or not to press Arya for more information, his phone rings.

_(Shit.)_

Him and Arya freeze, exchanging a look.

It had only been forty five minutes since they left. Jory wasn’t due to check on them for awhile. But anything was possible. Maybe Ned was released early from court, or Rickon left wrestling because he was sick. Maybe Bran had come home from Jojen’s house, and found them gone. Whatever the case was, Jon braces himself for the worse, and checks the caller ID.

_Sansa._

Jon blinks.

“I swear to gods, she’s like, psychic.” Arya gapes when he shows her. “What possible reason could she have to call you?”

“Don’t know.” The phone still vibrates away in his hand. It’d be wiser not to answer, but if she had gotten home before them and found them gone, he needed to do some placating so that she wouldn’t tell Ned.

So he answers. “Hello?”

“Jon.” Her breathing sounds strangely hard and heavy, but what catches his attention is the way she says his name. High, shrill, and choked, like she’s on the verge of panic. “I...I didn’t know who else to call, nobody else is answering.”

He sits up straight immediately, heart in his throat. “Sansa?”

“I know you’re not supposed to leave the house, but—” And then she _sobs,_ all broken and hoarse. Her breathing turns rapid and shallow, like she’s hyperventilating. “I can’t—I’m—”

“Hey, breathe. Breathe.” Jon commands, over and over again until he hears her breathing slow. “Sansa, _breathe._ What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

Arya sits up, eyes wide in alarm, tugging on his arm for an explanation, but Jon halts her with a hand on her shoulder. It takes a full 30 seconds for Sansa’s breathing to fully even out, and when she finally speaks, she still sounds panic and scared.

It breaks something in him.

“I was driving to the theater to meet Alys and Jeyne and everything was fine and I took my eyes off the road for like, one second and—” Sansa sniffles, and another sob breaks free. “It’s so _horrible_ , Jon.”

Gods, a car accident?

“Are you hurt?” Jon demands. “Is anything broken?”  


“No. I’m fine but—” Sansa takes a shaky breath, in an effort to calm herself. “I messed up, Jon. I messed up bad.”

_Shit._ His gut twists. “Is anyone else hurt?”

And Sansa starts _weeping._

“Fuck. Okay.” Jon swears, running his hands through his hair, standing up. He starts pacing. He tries to think of everything he read in his introductory law books. Unbidden, he starts picturing ran over dead bodies instead. “Alright. That’s okay. Just don’t say anything.”

“It’s not okay.” Sansa cries. “I should have been paying closer attention. I’m so _stupid_ . A _stupid_ little girl who never learns—”

“Don’t say that.” Jon interrupts sternly. She hiccups, and lapses into silence. He sighs, tries to make his voice gentler. More softer. “Send me the address, okay? I’m coming.”

***

“What the fuck are we gonna do?” Arya babbles in the car ten minutes later, as they’re zooming towards the address Sansa had sent them—a farm ten miles outside of Wintertown. Her phone had died in the middle of the call, and she was probably losing her mind. But not as much as Arya was losing hers. “We don’t have enough space in the trunk to hide a body.”

“Can we just—” Jon clenches the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white, growing queasy at the thought of the smell of a dead body. It wasn’t a scent he knew, but he knew enough of it to not want to smell it. “One thing at a time? Please.”

“You’re right,” Arya nods, but it’s jerky, comes off very bobble head like. She rubs the palms of her hands on her knees. “You know, Aunt Barbrey always thought it would be me or Rickon to go to jail for killing someone.

“Aunt Barbrey’s a bitter old hag.” Jon scoffs. “And nobody’s going to jail. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

(His voice doesn’t sound right in his own ears.)

(He’s really not even sure if that’s true himself.)

They see the car before they see her.

A cherry red Volkswagen crushed and battered into an old rusty, parked, pick up truck, which was obviously the object of collision. When they get out of the car, and come closer, it only gets worse—the bumper is on a hinge. The license plate is missing. The left headlight is completely done for.

“Holy…” Arya trails off.

His heart sinks.

Sansa is standing nearby talking to an old man, looking like she could break down any minute. When she sees Jon, her lip quivers and she rushes into his arms. He catches her, holding her close for a moment, so utterly relieved she’s okay that he releases a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. He pulls her back, examining her face in his hands. There’s a cut on her lip, and she had been rubbing her shoulder before in a way that concerned him.

“You should be at the hospital.” Jon blurts. “You could have a concussion, or internal bleeding, or—”

“I’m _fine._ ” Her blue eyes are rimmed red and her cheeks are still streaked with tear tracks. He wipes away at them. “I think.”

That was _literally_ the opposite of reassuring.

“What happened?”

“I saw it all from my yard.” The old man steps forward. He’s bald, graying, and has a toothpick in his mouth. It must have been his truck. “She was coming down the street pretty fast when she hit it. I guess she was shocked and swerved right into my truck.”

“It?” Arya furrows her eyebrows.

_(If it wasn’t the truck….)_

Sansa _wails_ , burying her face into his neck. He pats at her back reassuringly, murmuring into her ear, but he follows the old man with his eyes, who is sauntering back towards the road. That is when he points. Arya steps a bit closer to see.

“That.”

Arya stops. For a whole minute she just stands there, frozen. When she finally pivots, she looks relieved, pissed, and _hysterical._

“A cat?” She shouts. “You killed a fucking _cat_?”

(A cat.)

(She killed a _cat_.)

(What the _fuck?_ )

“I know! I’m such a terrible person.” Sansa blubbers. “It should have been me—”

“Sansa. Hey.” Jon takes her face in his hands again. Mostly because he’s trying to keep himself from shaking her as much as he’s trying to keep himself from bursting out into relieved, delirious laughter. “Baby. It’s a _cat_.”

“It was so small!” She exclaims. “It probably had so much more life to live!”

“Oh _jeez._ ” Arya rolls her eyes, but as much as she looks like she wants to strangle Sansa, she sighs, and settles for patting her on the back awkwardly instead. “Alright. You’re okay.”

She’s able to coax Sansa into walking to the car with her, while Jon turns, and braces himself to deal with the old man. “Look, Mr.—”

“Seaworth.” He offers.

“Mr. Seaworth.” Jon says. “Thank you for taking care of her like this. You really didn’t have to.”

“It was mostly my wife.” Seaworth says, jutting a thumb to the window, where a woman sat watching the whole exchange. There were little boys who were fighting to see what was going on as well. “It wasn’t any trouble. She seems like a sweet kid. I hope she doesn’t beat herself up about this.”

If Jon knew Sansa, that was exactly what she was going to do. But hopefully she’d get over it, with time. Or at least, before Ned got home and killed them.

After being lent a piece of paper and a pen, Jon scribbles the Stark house address, and Ned’s phone number to call in case he wanted his damages to be payed. As of now, the man jwas insisting that it was no big deal, because the car was already a piece of junk and hadn’t worked for the last six months and he’d been meaning to take it to the junkyard.

After Jon calls triple A, Mr. Seaworth frowns, squinting at him. “Do I know you from somewhere? You look mighty familiar.”

“Nope.” Jon says quickly, pushing his sunglasses further up onto his nose. “I’ve been told I have one of those faces, though.”

Mr. Seaworth shrugs, and leaves it at that.

(Today _truly_ was becoming a day for miracles.)

“Triple A is on its way.” Jon informs them when he gets back to the car. Sansa is in the backseat, leaning on Arya’s shoulder. “I still think we should head to the ER before we go home.”

“We can’t just _leave._ ” Sansa protests, sitting up.

Arya beats Jon to the chase in a reply. It’s a little irritated but still soft and patient. “Sansa, we don’t have much of a choice. Jon’s not supposed to even be out here, remember? He could be recognized at any second.”

“I know.” Sansa sighs, biting her lip.

And _fuck._

She turns to him with those blue eyes, all wide and teary. She’s _pouting._ And Jon has never seen anything so painful and heart wrenching in his entire fucking life.

“I just don’t want to leave it there….I figure I at least owe it that.”

Her lip trembles again.

_Fuck,_ Jon thinks frantically, exasperatedly. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, f—_

“Hold on.” Jon hears himself say through gritted teeth.

He jogs back over to Mr. Seaworth, who’s talking to his wife on the porch. He tries for an amiable smile, to look like some semblance of a nice person.

“I know I don’t have any right to do this, but I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you.”

***

“Should I say something?” Sansa whispers.

It’s an entire hour later. They’re standing in front of the hole in the ground that Jon had made with the shovel Mr. Seaworth gave him, just outside his property. The cat is inside of a shoe box that acts as a coffin, another courtesy of Mr. Seaworth, and his ears are still ringing from the shouting Ned had done over the phone when he got the call from Triple A.

(They should really be hauling ass home right now, as the more they let Ned stew, the worse it would probably be for them, and Arya agreed, as while he was digging the hole, she had said as much: _“This is so stupid. Dad’s gonna kill us.”_

_“He’s already gonna kill us.”_ Jon reminded her.)

And he was.

If it was gonna make Sansa feel better, then he didn’t see the harm in it.

“Oh my _gods._ ” Arya swears, crossing her arms. “Seriously? It’s _roadkill_.”

Sansa flinches, and Jon glares at Arya. She throws her hands up in the air, but doesn’t say anything else. Just stares forward in infuriated silence.

Jon takes Sansa’s hand, squeezing reassuringly. “Go ahead. If it makes you feel better.”

She nods. “Okay.” Inhales shakily. “Alright, um—” she fidgets with her fingers. “I’m really sorry this happened to you, cat. I….I should have been paying closer attention. I hope you’re in a better place...wherever cats go.”  


Sansa then ducks her head, eyes squeezed shut, and just stands there. _Praying,_ Arya looks ready to shove her in the hole herself, but all Jon can do is just stare at her in amazement. The same Sansa who had been embarrassed to be seen with him because of his piece of shit jeep a few years ago, the same Sansa who got offended if anyone thought she lived further North than Last Hearth, she was the same Sansa who cooked his favorite meals and cried over an alleycat she ran over on _accident—_

It’s _baffling._

It’s fucking _whiplash._

“Okay.” She says softly. “I’m ready.”  


Jon fills the hole back up, and no sooner than that does Arya dash to the passenger seat of the car. Sansa waits for him, though, to return the shovel to the Seaworths and thank them one last time, while she apologizes for the millionth time. Jon nearly has to drag her off the porch. Unexpectedly, as they’re heading back to the car, she takes his hand.

His brain short circuits.

“Thank you.” She says. “For doing that. Coming to get me. Just...thanks.”

Her hand is soft. Slender. Jon hadn’t been focusing earlier on it, not really, because he was just trying to comfort her, but now, _she_ had been the one to take his hand. He runs a thumb along her knuckle, because it’s supposed to be an acknowledgement of her thank you, but it’s also because he really can’t help himself.

“It was nothing.” His shrug feels mechanical.

Sansa smiles at him. It’s tired, half hearted, unsure, but genuine, and it makes Jon feel like he’s missed a step while walking down the stairs in the dark.

“No. It wasn’t.”

***

Jon, Arya, and Sansa all shuffle into the house, shoulders hunched, with a feeling hanging over them that can be described as, but definitely not limited to: dread, trepidation, apprehension, unease.

Unsurprisingly, it turns out that all of these are warranted.

Sansa gets it first.

“A SECOND NOTICE FOR THREE OUTSTANDING TICKETS?” Ned booms.

They all flinches, but Sansa is the best at trying not to show it. She instead frowns in confusion. “Daddy, I don’t even remember getting the first notice.

Ned exhales. Waits a full thirty seconds to respond, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The _ticket_ is the first notice.

She cringes. “Oh.”

“You’re lucky that this didn’t happen to you sooner!” Ned shouts. “You could have gotten seriously hurt, Sansa! Or hurt someone else.”

Sansa flushes with shame, looking down at the floor. Jon knows she’s thinking about that poor cat. “I know. I’m sorry.”

But Ned isn’t finished. He’s pacing behind his desk, running his hands through his hair, _raving._ “You’re lucky that Mr. Seaworth was so understanding about his truck. He didn’t even want anything. But the car? All of those unpaid tickets? Those things cost money, Sansa. Contrary to what you and your friends believe, that doesn’t just grow on trees.”

Sansa sniffles, as if she’s about to cry again, and Jon feels himself shift towards her. Hears himself defend her. “She knows that, Uncle Ned. It was an accident. She said she’s sorry.”  


Ned barks out a mirthless laugh that makes him wish he had never spoken at all. “You are the _last_ person I want to hear anything from right now.” He points a finger at Arya. “You too. _Sneaking_ out? What were you guys thinking?”

Sansa gasps, because she hadn’t known. Jon avoids Ned’s eyes, the disappointment in them is too much to bear. But Arya takes action, stepping forward.

“It’s my fault.”

Jon sighs. “Arya, don’t.”

“It is! I’m the one who convinced you.” She insists, and then turns to Ned. “He’s practically a prisoner here, Dad. It’s not _fair_.”

“Jon knows what he signed up for! He made an agreement with his father to put himself in unecessary danger, an agreement with me.” Ned seethes, and whirls on him once again. “You’re lucky that Jory was on duty. The other one reports your every move back to the king, or else we’d be doing things very differently right now.”

_(He isn’t going to tell him.)_

_(He’s not sending me back_ . _)_

That frankly made Jon feel even worse about the whole thing. After all the stress he had caused him in one day, all of the grief, Ned still protects him. Still goes up to bat for him. He hadn’t realized how much he was afraid of this opportunity being taken away until it very nearly just happened.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Ned. Really.”

It’s not enough to appease him at the moment. Ned shakes his head, finally halting his pacing to sag in his desk chair. He rubs at his temples. “I can’t…I thought I raised you all better than this.”

They all hang their heads in shame.

Ned clears his throat, folding his hands. “Sansa, I’ll need your spare keys.”

Her jaw drops. “What?”

“Until you learn how to be a responsible behind the wheel, I don’t want you setting foot inside of your car without another licensed driver.”

“Daddy—”

Ned raises his voice slightly, opening up his hands. “That’s final.”

Sansa shuts her mouth, face pinched. She takes the keys out of her purse and drops them in Ned’s hand. She turns around and storms out, letting the door slam behind her. It startles Jon.

_(She’s never that belligerent with him.)_

A muscle in Ned’s jaw ticks. “Arya, you’re grounded for a month.”

“ _A month?”_

It shocked Jon too. He was never one for harsh punishments when it came to Arya, as he was more lenient with her than the rest of them, even Rickon. Clearly, Ned felt she had taken advantage of that one too many times.

“Since you’re so concerned about Jon being lonely, you’re on house arrest too. You’re to go nowhere but practice and home.”

“He’s _leaving_ next week.” Arya snaps, “Why can’t I be grounded until next week instead of a month?”

Ned‘s expression only grows more stony. “You can be grounded a month and an extra week, if you’d like.”

Arya’s face darkens. She shuts up, and storms out of the room in the same fashion Sansa had minutes before, except the slam of her door was much louder. The glass rattles.

Ned sags further into his chair.

Jon fidgets nervously under his disappointed glare. He feels like he’s 12 again.

Ned scowls. “I can’t ground you. You’re an adult.”

Jon would let him, would do anything he said, if it meant Ned would stop looking at him like this. Like he had never been more disappointed in him. It hurts, almost as much as his father’s indifference. He came here to help. To be an asset. He didn’t come here to make things worse for him, to be a problem—

But here he was.

“But I can ask you to make some changes if you want to stay here.” He says. “On your first night, you told me that you knew I did a lot to get you here.”

Jon swallows. “Yes sir.”

Ned comes from behind the desk, and grips Jon by the shoulder. Makes him look at him straight in the eyes.

“Show me it wasn’t for nothing.”

***

As soon as Jon exits the study, he is waylaid.

“You snuck out of the house? What were you _thinking_ ?”  


Sansa’s voice is sharp and cracks like a whip. He’s trying to head towards the living room, but she follows him. He’s still stinging from Ned’s disappointment, and the way she’s determined to let him have it, after all he had done for her today, after what he had done for her in _there_ , makes him bristle.

_(I was thinking I wanted to catch my breath.)_

_(I was thinking I was tired of being stuck in the house, desperate for human companionship.)_

_(I was thinking I needed to just get away.)_

“I wasn’t, okay. Is that what you wanna hear?”

It must not be, because that only makes her eyes narrow. She snaps, “How could you do something so _thoughtless_ and _dangerous_? You have security guards for a reason. Your family isn’t the most popular around here.”

Jon has to grit his teeth at the “Your family” remark, because she’s talking to him as if he was a Targaryen his whole life, and hadn’t basically raised by her side. “I would have had to leave the house anyway when you called. Me and Arya were careful. It was the same amount of risk.”  


Bran is sitting on the couch, nose stuck in some book. He looks up, and opens his mouth to greet them, but Sansa cuts him off, eyes as cool as chipped ice, and hands placed on her hips.

“Yeah, but Daddy wouldn’t be nearly as pissed.” Sansa huffs. “If you and Arya had done what you were told _for once,_ I’d probably still have my car.”

“Is that seriously what you’re thinking about right now?” Jon blazes. “Your _car_?”

“Of _course_ I’m—how else am I gonna get to school?” Go to meetings? Have a social life at all this year?”

So this was now _his_ fault. No surprise there. Better it be anyone else’s than her own.

“You’re such a _brat_.”

“Oh that’s just _rich_ coming from you!”

“For the first time in your _entire_ life you’ve encountered a problem you can’t pout your way out of.” Jon sneers. “Welcome to the real world.”

“You don’t know _shit_ about the world I’ve had to live in.”

And Jon’s not quite sure what to say to that.

Because her fists are clenched and her face is enraged but _stricken_ . Her breath is coming out in short puffs and her eyes are wet and there’s just something very _wrong_ about it all, like there was a nerve he had touched or line that he was a hairbreadth away from crossing and the way she’s looking at him—

Jon never wants her to look at him like that again.

“Guys.” Bran is standing in between them now, holding up a hand to stop each of them. “Fighting like this doesn’t solve anything.”

“Who’s side are you _on_?” Sansa snaps.

“Neither.” Bran retorts. “Both of you guys need to get over yourselves.”

(She won’t look at him.)

(She refuses to look at him.)

“Whatever.” Sansa eventually says, tone clipped. She pushes past him and marches upstairs. When he hears her door slam, Jon takes a pillow and throws it across the room, cursing.

_Fucking whiplash._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Favorite lines? Characters? Predictions? Questions? I wanna hear them all! Drop a comment. If it’s something you want me to see sooner rather than later, I’m also available at @jeynesgreyjoy on tumblr, where I shit post about the story and whine about my writing progress. I also have a tag for the story on there on my blog, clueless, so feel free to check it out. Thanks for reading! 
> 
> (Question of the chapter: Who do you suspect outed Jon?)


	5. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The way it all goes down that day—
> 
> It’s honestly not Sansa’s fault.
> 
> In fact, it could have been way worse, had she not done what was necessary. She tries to acknowledge that. Embrace it. And it works, for the most part.
> 
> (No.)
> 
> (No, it doesn’t)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You asked, and you received! Thank you so much for all of the love and appreciation I’ve gotten for this story! Unfortunately, I can’t promise a double update so soon because the next chapter is going to be a long one, but I CAN promise chapter 6 on New Years in exchange for 25 more comments.
> 
> Fun fact: The scene at the end of this chapter was one I had always envisioned in the early stages of toying with the idea of this AU. No matter how much I tweaked it, what characters I changed, this scene was ALWAYS there, no matter what. This chapter was the easiest to write so far, and it’s my personal favorite. I hope you guys enjoy it!

**Sansa**

The way it all goes down that day—  
  
It’s honestly not Sansa’s fault.

In fact, it could have been _way_ worse, had she not done what was necessary. She tries to acknowledge that. Embrace it. And it works, for the most part.

(No.)

(No, it doesn’t)

***

It’s like the butterfly effect, and the first domino falls the night before her first day of school.

Sansa’s sitting on the bed in her father’s room, watching him undo his cufflinks and loosen the knot of his tie. She’s just finished setting all of his medicine out one by one on his nightstand for bedtime, along with a glass of water. Because no matter how upset she is with him, she knows he will forget.

A day has passed since her sentencing, and he at least _seems_ a lot less angry than he was yesterday. So she forces herself to look as pitiful and distraught as possible, which wasn’t that hard every time she thought about her car.

“Daddy, can I borrow the keys to Robb’s Mazda tomorrow?”

Robb had left his car at home. He didn’t really need it up at Trident U, since the Riverlands were so heavily populated and chock full with public transportation that it would actually be a hindrance. It was nice enough, new, and most importantly—undamaged.

“I already told you, Sansa.” Ned sighs. “I’m not letting you get behind the wheel of any car until I’m confident enough that you’ll be safe.”

She had been expecting that answer. But still, she whines, “How else am I going to get to school tomorrow?”

Jeyne couldn’t drive her—one of her sister’s was forced to borrow her Lexus—so they were going to take her. Alys always rode with her boyfriend, and while both of them offered, Sigorn still creeped her out too much to be trapped in a car with him. Ned usually left the house by six—three hours earlier than she really needed to be at school, so he couldn’t take her either. The first day was fast approaching and she had her outfit together, her binder, and her purse, but she still didn’t know how the hell she was gonna get to school.

“Osha’s already taking Bran and Rickon.” Ned offers. “I’m sure she’d be more than happy to take you if you just asked.”

Sansa’s jaw drops. Osha driving her to school in her giant, soccer mom minivan with Rickon and Bran in the backseat. Of course it didn’t matter to Bran, because he was only an eighth grader, but this was her senior year. Her return to society. And he wanted her to make that debut in a fucking _minivan?_

It’s ridiculous.

It’s _horrifying._

“Daddy, that’s embarrassing.” Sansa says through gritted teeth.

“Maybe it will help motivate you to be a more responsible driver.”

Sansa _seethes._

The _one time_ she had messed up, the one time she had done something bad happened to outweigh everything else she had done since she got home—trying to help everyone eat better. Making sure he got his medicine. Regularly making attempts to put herself out there to try to make the best out of her senior year, and a ticket and a fucked up car had ruined it? That wasn’t _nearly_ as bad as the time Arya had cussed out one of her teachers, or the time where she had actually _ran away_ for a whole day. After pushing the limits thousands on thousands of times, Arya was finally getting what she deserved, but after doing it once, Sansa’s punishment was just as harsh.

She doesn’t tell him that.

Instead, she keeps her eyes open until they sting from the cold air and she feigns a sniffle. Nothing else was working. This was her last chance. It was time to pull out the big guns.

“All I want is for this year to be perfect.” She says quietly, lowering her lashes. “I know everyone at school probably already believes what they heard from Joffrey and his friends. I just wanted a chance to change their minds.”

That was mostly, true. Sansa had to make sure this year went off without a hitch if she was going to change everyone’s mind about who she was. Show them that she was more than Joffrey’s ex, or Robb’s little sister. This year was her chance to prove herself.

Her Dad never understood why she cared about everyone else’s opinion so much.

It works, sure enough. While he had never been the best parent at comforting any of them, Ned sits beside her, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders. “If they’re so quick to believe that, then none of them are worth your friendship, sweet girl.”

“I know.” Sansa says, leaning into his shoulder. “But it would still be nice have some friends.”

Ned kisses the top of her head. “I understand.”

Hope blooms in her chest. “You do?

“Yes.” He rubs her shoulder, and exhales. “But I’m still not ready to let you drive yet, Sansa. I can’t risk your safety, or anyone else’s.”

“Oh.” Sansa deflates, remembering the poor cat from Mr. Seaworth’s farm. As much as she needed to drive again, she didn’t want to hurt anyone or anything else.

Ned sits still for awhile, thinking, when his eyebrows raise up slightly in consideration. He makes a sound of contemplation.

“Jon could probably take you.”

Sansa freezes, pushing her hair behind her ears to make sure she hadn’t misheard him. Pinched the back of her hand. Closes her eyes. But when she opens then, her father is still nodding, scratching at his chin, like it’s not the worst idea in the history of ideas in the world.

_“What?”_

_“_ He’s not used to being so inactive.” Ned muses. “Maybe sometime outside will do him some good. And he owes me one for covering for him.”

“He’s not supposed to _leave,_ ” Sansa points out quickly, latches on to it because it’s possibly her last saving grace. “That’s apart of the deal with the King, remember? You said.”

“I know, but—” Ned stops, cracks his knuckles, continues. “Jory’s on duty during the day anyway. He could tail you guys. The king wouldn’t even have to know….”

He’s thinking about it.

He’s actually _considering_ it.

“Daddy, I don’t—” Sansa laughs uneasily. “I just—that’s a lot of risk. You don’t have to do that for me.”

“It isn’t just for you.” Ned confesses. “Arya was right. Jon’s been cooped up in here like an animal without his freedom. Maybe if I had been more lenient, he wouldn’t have—“

He sighs.

And Sansa can’t really say no to that.

It’s either Jon or Osha, and as upset as she still was wiry him right now, as annoyed as she was with him, Sansa didn’t really have much of a choice. It wasn’t like they’d be alone. Arya would be there. With any luck, she wouldn’t even have to talk to him.

“If it’s alright with you, it’s alright with me Daddy.” She forces on a smile. Ned kisses her cheek, and pats her head, because of course, he would expect nothing else of Sansa. Yes, Daddy. Of course, Daddy. Go ahead and make things 10 times harder for me.

Sansa couldn’t even remember the last time she had uttered the word _no._

***

The next few dominos fall in a fucking crescendo in the morning.

Her flat iron is broken.

Sansa has no clue _how,_ as when she used it just three days ago it was working just fine. She strongly suspects Rickon, and briefly considers dragging him out of bed by the ankles to _strangle_ him—but instead, she settles for brushing her hair until it shines, thanking every one of the seven that it wasn’t her blow dryer that had been broken instead. She counts to ten. She moves on.

But then Sansa finds a rip in her suede skirt.

How she hadn’t seen it yesterday, she had no clue, but after wasting ten minutes trying to mend it with trembling fingers, she settles for her yellow plaid skirt and matching blazer. She looks a million times better in it, anyway. She doesn’t even have to count to ten for that. She moves on easily.

And then her lipstick breaks.

She had dropped it on accident in the kitchen, and in rushing to get to to the toaster, Bran stepped on it. A desperate shout rips from her throat, and she quickly claps her hand over her mouth. Bran cringes, apologizing profusely and trying to pick up what remains of it, but after several deep breaths, Sansa stops him with a tight smile.

“It’s fine! It’s fine. I’ll just go get my spare. Don’t worry about it.”

He looks so apologetic, Sansa can’t find it in herself to yell at him. So she jogs upstairs, counting to 20 this time. She’s doing this aloud, and is so busy trying to keep herself from having a mental breakdown, she does not see that the light to the bathroom is on, and doesn’t bother knocking before opening it.

That’s a _huge_ mistake.

Jon’s standing there, half naked (honestly, she counts it more as three fourths naked, considering the towel wrapped around his waist was slung low and looked like it could drop _any_ second) and a toothbrush in his mouth. His hair is still curly and dripping from the shower, and _he’s_ still dripping from the shower and the room is all steamy and hazy and smells like his aftershave and _him—_

“Dude.” Jon says, words garbled from the toothbrush in his mouth. “Ever heard of knocking?”

_What the fuck._

_What the fuck????_

“I didn’t know you were in here.” Sansa says quickly. Her face is definitely the color of a fire truck right now. She covers eyes to make it seem like she’s avoiding looking at him instead of making it harder for him to look at her.

“Of course I’m in here.” Jon says, dumbfounded. “I have to take you to school.”

“Sorry.” Sansa mumbles. “I just need my makeup bag.”

She hears the sound of rustling in the drawers, and Jon says “Here.” Sansa has no choice but to take her hands off her face and take it from him.

He is too close.

An arm’s length away, but still. It wouldn’t take much to just reach out, and touch him. She foolishly thinks about it, for the smallest nanosecond, but then she accidentally catches his eyes and she remembers:

_“For the first time in your life, you’ve encountered a problem you can’t pout your way out of.”_

“Thanks.” Sansa says frostily, and she slams the door without a look back.

If Jon really thought she was such a spoiled, rich, airhead, then that is what she would give to him.

***

“Shotgun!” Arya calls, hopping down the steps. She’s the last one out of the door out of the three of them, but that isn’t any surprise. She couldn’t be on time to save her life.

“As _if._ ” Sansa sneers. She’s already standing next to the front passenger seat, and puts her hand on the handle of the car to show she intends to remain that way. “I’m not gonna be seen exiting the back of the car like some kind of pre schooler,”

“But those are the rules!” Arya insists angrily.

“Says who?”

“Says the universe.”

“Is that who’s gonna make me move?” Sansa taunts. Normally she wouldn’t be so antagonizing but this morning was wearing on her last nerve, and any ounce of patience she had left was ultimately gonna be wasted on Arya. “The _universe?_ ”

Arya balls up her fists. “I think I can manage just fine.”

“Guys. You’re gonna be late if you keep it up like this.” Jon says. He puts a hand on Arya’s shoulder. “She’s already there. You can have the front seat on the drive home, promise.”

Arya shoots a poisonous look at Sansa, but ultimately settles into the back seat as soon as Jon unlocks the doors. Sansa smirks triumphantly, sliding into the front, but regrets her choice seconds later when she realizes that she’d be sitting in the front seat with _Jon._

She fishes for her headphones in her purse. They were nowhere to be found.

_(Really? Today of all days?)_

Sansa has the strongest urge to jump out of the moving car. Jory was riding so close behind them he could probably do a tiny swerve and end her suffering.

(She decides not to because she’d rather not give Arya the satisfaction.)

The car ride is slow moving and painful. The 15 minutes it takes to get to school feels like an hour.

But not for Jon and Arya. They chatter on and on about soccer, and sports, and music and a bunch of other inside jokes that were only for them. It doesn’t annoy her, not really, as it means she gets to be left alone, but every few minutes, Jon glances at her out of the corner of his eye and flexes his hands against the steering wheel and it’s so irritating because it’s another reminder that they aren’t _okay._

And the thing is—

They’re always _fighting_.

Picking at each other. Calling each other names. Trying to get the other tripped up, and that’s _fine._ It’s just what they do, and Sansa always gives just as good as she gets. It keeps her on her toes. Sometimes, it’s even exhilarating. So yeah, they fight. But they always make up somehow, whether it’s spoken or unspoken.

Except this time, they can’t, because Jon doesn’t really know what he did, just knows that he did it.

And Sansa sure as hell doesn’t intend on telling him.

That would mean she would have to explain what happened in King’s Landing with Joffrey, and then she’d have to go through the same cycle of apprehension and pity she went through with everyone else in the house before they started treating her normally again. She didn’t want to go through that for the millionth time, and she especially didn’t want to go through that with Jon, because if he started treating her different–

Sansa doesn’t really know what she would do.

But that wasn’t what stung the most. It was the fact after Sansa had thought she was actually changing his mind, that she was showing him that she was more than just some spoiled rich kid—they were right back where they started. Because he obviously still saw her that way, and said just as much. Sansa was actually beginning to think that there was more to him than the melancholy rebel without a cause front he showed everyone, after the necklace, and the night in the kitchen, and the way he had taken care of her that day.

( _Baby._

That was what he called her yesterday, holding her face in his hands while he tried to comfort her, and then he had dug her a grave for the cat, and then he had held her hand and—

_Baby_.

She knows better than to read into it. Her, Jeyne, and Alys talked to each other like that all of the time. Her father called her Sweetheart, and sweet girl, and Robb called her ladybug like Nan did, but “ _baby…_ ”

No one’s ever looked at her and said it the way Jon has before.)

Sansa had obviously been sorely wrong about Jon, and she would just have to find a way to be okay with that.

The torture only lasts a little while longer. The car slows to a stop in front of the school a full 12 minutes before the bell is set to ring. Arya leans forward on the console and pecks Jon on the cheek before scrambling to get out.

“Have a good day!” He calls out after her. “Make good choices.”

“Never!” She grins, slamming the door and dashing off.

Sansa would love to do the same, but she wouldn’t risk getting out of the car until she knew she looked perfect. She flips down the sun visor, using its mirror to check her makeup. Nothing seems to be amiss.

She turns to Jon, only because there’s no one else around. “How do I look?”

His ears are flushed, and he grips the steering wheel. “Fine.”

Sansa scowls. “You haven’t even looked at me.”

Jon sighs a long suffering sigh, biting his lip, but he turns to her. His eyes flit over her face. Another sigh. She does not know what it means.

“You look…nice.”

“I know.” The nerves in her stomach slow their churning at his words of encouragement, reinforcing her confidence. Sansa relaxes. “Thanks.”

“Sansa, wait.”

Just as she had moved to open the car door, Jon catches her by the elbow, and she’s so shocked by the contact that she lets the door fall shut again. She’s glad she’s wearing a jacket, but even through it, his hands are heavy. Strong. Warm.

She yanks her arm back, blushing. “What?”

He looks a little hurt at that, but he continues. Quietly. Earnestly. “I’m sorry about the other day.”

Sansa stares ahead.

She doesn’t say a word.

“What I said…It wasn’t fair. You were right. I don’t know what you’ve had to deal with. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

And the way he’s looking down at his hands, fidgeting, the way he’s so anxious, unsure, something heavy drops in Sansa’s stomach, and her breath catches.

“You know.”

Jon looks up to meet her gaze, confused, and most importantly, cautious. “What do you mean?”

“Arya.” Her voice sounds far away in her own ears, and she feels numb. “She told you, didn’t she?”

“No! No.” Jon says quickly, shaking his head. “She just...she said you had a rough time in King’s Landing but that was it. She said it wasn’t her story to tell.”

Insurmountable relief crashes into her, and Sansa exhales heavily. She has to grip the sides of her seat to keep it all contained. She clears her throat. “She’s right.”

Jon furrows his eyebrow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine.” Sansa interjects, maybe a bit more harshly than necessary. She opens the door. “I have to go. Class starts soon.”

“Sansa—”

“See you at two.” She tells him, in a voice that brokers no arguments, and walks off before he can say anything else.

***

Sansa doesn’t know what she originally expected out of her first day of school but she certainly hadn’t expected it to be this _easy._

Everyone is glad to see her. Kids that she had known since they were in kindergarten were coming up to her and embracing her excitedly. Wylla Manderly, Margaery’s stepsister, had been the first, and everyone soon followed. Every few minutes, someone was trying to pull her off into a different direction, talking about how great it was to see her. Sansa was pleased, but she wasn’t fooled. She made sure to be very careful of what she said.

Classes this year were already set up to be a million times better than the last, since she didn’t have to take math, but Sansa was surprised that she enjoyed all of her morning ones. She had English with Jeyne first period and Art class with Meera Reed for second, who she had known pretty much all of her life since their Dads were best friends. She hadn’t been ugly before, but she had gotten very pretty recently, and Sansa suddenly knew why Bran was always at Jojen’s house.

Sansa had third period government with Margaery, but Smalljon Umber, a soccer jock and a staple in their friend group for the longest, acted as a buffer between them and kept things pleasant for the most part. For fourth period, she had psychology alone, but Jeyne had Statistics right across from Sansa that same hour (she still voluntarily took math because she was so brilliant at it) and that was who she walked with to lunch.

“Seems like the first day’s a success so far.” Jeyne notes, linking their arms. She was wearing a skirt and blazer made of the same material Sansa had used to make the yellow outfit she was wearing currently, but black and white. It was completely on accident, but it made them look super chic and well put together.

“So far.” Sansa repeats, running a hand through her hair. “I feel like it’s been _way_ too easy.”

“The day isn’t over yet.” Jeyne warns, nudging her teasingly. “Don’t jinx it.”

They giggle together, catching the attention of a few stragglers hanging around the hallways. The lunch room is as crowded and raucous as ever. Thanks to being at the other end of the school, it takes them forever to get through the lunch line and make their way to the tables outside, which were just as cluttered.

“Guys! Over here!”

It’s Alys, waving at them from two circular tables pushed close to keep the group together. She recognizes almost all of the faces: Sigorn, Smalljon, Edric Storm (not to be confused with Edric Dayne, who was a year younger and apparently went by Ned now,) Margaery, Wylla, Meera, Ros, and the rest of the cheer team sprinkled in with some of the soccer players.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes.” Edric grins at her, standing up to meet them. He had gotten cute, and finally grew into his ears. Jeyne must think so too, because she widens her eyes at Sansa behind his back. “Alys told me you were back. It’s good to see you.”

It takes everything in her to stifle the laughter that was bubbling up in her throat thanks to Jeyne. “You too, Edric.”

“Come sit right next to me, miss popular.” Margaery declares, patting a spot on the bench that was conveniently empty. Sansa looks at Jeyne, but she waves her off, and takes a seat right across from her beside Meera.

“Hey, Sans!” Wylla greets cheerfully.

“Hey.” She says, with a smile that is equally big but not as genuine. She had to be on guard around these girls. “What are we talking about?”

“You, actually.” Ros says.

How surprising—which was to say...Not. But Sansa still blinks in fake surprise, with a hand over her chest. “Really?”

“It’s just so _surreal_ that you’re back from King’s Landing.” Margaery says, pursing her lips as if she still couldn’t wrap her head around it. “Like, we thought you’d graduate from there.”

_(Oh, she’s good.)_

_(Too good.)_

“I know if I had the choice I’d be anywhere but here.” Smalljon puts in.

Sansa had already decided long ago how she would play this.

She shrugs, taking a sip of her drink to give her time to go over spiel. To make it sound more natural. “Yeah, but that changes when you’ve been away from the North for so long, guys. Leaving was a hard choice to make but—there’s no place like home.”

Meera nods in agreement. “Same. I love this place way too much to ever leave.”

“It has its perks.” Edric says, winking at Sansa.

This time it’s Alys who shoots her a look, and Sansa responds with a “ _what the fuck”_ glance of her own. In order to keep from laughing out loud, Alys turns her face into Sigorn’s neck, nuzzling deeply. He looks down at her in confused amusement.

But Margaery isn’t done.

“It must have been pretty easy to make that choice after your break up with Joffrey Lannister, though.”

A hush falls over the tables for a few seconds.

Jeyne laughs, but it doesn’t sound so good natured. “Marge, lovely. Keep it cute.”

“That wasn’t cool.” Alys says coldly.

“No, it wasn’t.” Meera frowns.

“It was an honest question!” Margaery says, playing up her shock at the blowback she was getting by putting a hand over Sansa’s. “I’m sorry, hon. I didn’t realize it would be such sensitive subject for you.”

Sansa was happy that Jeyne and Alys had stood up for her, it only confirmed what she already knew: they were the only ones she could trust, and Meera had been a nice surprise. she had been expecting a remark like that. “It isn’t, actually. It’s all in the past. Don’t sweat it.”

“That’s good!” Wylla seemed to be quick to want to disperse the tension that had spread through the table. “It’s good to see you’ve moved on.”

But Margaery _still_ isn’t done.

“I’ll say. I just saw the other day that he was seen with that Velaryon girl. It says good things of you that you’re comfortable with him dating other people so soon.”

Sansa’s mouth dries.

And it’s not the fact that Joffrey is dating again that stumps her, it’s the fact that she hadn’t known so she couldn’t have anticipated people at school talking about it. But it was still difficult to look at pictures of Joffrey, nevermind read articles in the blogs about him or stalk his Instagram. She had only just stopped having nightmares about him.

(She felt bad for that Velaryon girl, but maybe her last name would save her.)

But Sansa thinks quickly.

And _that_ is when a fuckload of dominos start falling.

“It’s not that soon. It’s been what, 3 months? Joff is perfectly free to date whoever he want” She shrugs. She models the all knowing smirk she plasters on her face after Jeyne’s for what she says next.“And so am I.”

That bomb explodes the minute it hits the ground.

“Oh my _gods!_ ” Wylla exclaims.

Ros raises her eyebrows. “Are you saying—”

“If I didn’t know better I’d think you were implying that you’ve found your next fish in the sea.” Margaery breaks in, smiling excitedly. It does not reach her eyes. Those are brown, and filled with curiosity.

“Oh Marge,” Sansa says sweetly. “Unlike you, I don’t kiss and tell.”

Jeyne doesn’t bother hiding her laugh, and neither does Alys, Edric, or Smalljon. Wylla sniggers as well, and when Margaery glares at her, she bops her nose. “A joke is a joke.”

Her savior comes in the form of Meera, who sensed that she was about to get pissy. “Wait, Marge. You promised to tell us all about Loras. I thought he was finishing his last year here too.”

Margaery’s face morphs into a genuine smile at the mention of her twin brother, and she launches into his plans for arriving, which was supposed to be later tonight. The girls hang on to every word, but Sansa and Jeyne tune it all out, talking amongst themselves.

“Looks like you’re finally showing your claws, Wolf girl.” Jeyne whispers appraisingly.

Sansa flips her hair. “I’ve been sharpening them for awhile.”

***

“That was stupid.” Alys informs her, when they’re in physics together after lunch.

It’s their last class of the day, and the only one they have together. It’s taught by Mr. Wolkan, who was monotone and so drill sounding she could have sworn she was about to fall asleep. He spends about 10 minutes giving them the rundown of the course, passes out the syllabus, and gives them the rest of the hour to talk amongst themselves as an “icebreaker.”

“Duh.” Sansa bites her lower lip. At the time, the backhanded remark felt great, but the more she thought about it, the more she wondered what the consequence would be for it. “I just…I totally freaked. I knew I was gonna have to talk about him sometime but…she like, ambushed me.”

“She’s ruthless.” Alys says sympathetically, and then she lowers her voice, eyes downcast. “I would have told you about the Velaryon girl but…I didn’t think you’d want to know.”

“I wouldn’t have.” Sansa reassures her. Jeyne had told her the same thing before she had to head off to class. “It’s okay.”

Alys lets out a breath she had been holding, and grabs Sansa’s hand gratefully. “Good. But what are you gonna do now?”

“Find a boyfriend, I guess.” Sansa replies flatly, running her temples. “Gods, I am so _screwed_.”

“Well that shouldn’t be too hard.” Alys says, eyes brightening. She giggles then. “Did you see the way Edric was drooling over you.”

Sansa mimes a gagging motion, shivering. “Gross. He doesn’t even like me, I know it. He just thinks he does because I’m cute and it’s the first time he’s seen me in a year.”

“Hopefully he figures that out for himself soon.”

“He better.” Sansa says seriously. “Or I’ll get my imaginary boyfriend to sort him out real good.”

The girls burst out into laughter, attempting to keep it as quiet as possible at the back of the classroom so that they didn’t attract Wolkan’s attention. That honor goes to someone else though, because the door opens.

It’s a guy. A tall one, even taller than Sansa. Dark haired, almost black. He’s muscular, like _football_ player muscular. Maybe even trashy romance cover muscular. He makes everything around him look small, even the doorway. He’s cute, _very_ cute. But he also looks mean, and really unapproachable.

“You’re late.” Mr. Wolkan drones, unimpressed.

“Got lost.” His voice is deep too. “Sorry.”

“Name?”

He clenches his jaw, like he doesn’t want to be up there any longer than necessary. “Gendry Waters.”

Wolkan gives him a syllabus, and gestures to the classroom. “Take a seat anywhere. I’ll make a seating chart tomorrow.”

The boy, Gendry Waters, didn’t have to be told twice. He makes his way to a desk at the back of the room, and plops down. He doesn’t say anything else, just leans back and closes his eyes, like he was gonna take a nap.

On the first day of school.

This guy was _bold._

“What about him?” Alys whispers, jutting her chin im Gendry’s direction. “Fresh meat. He’s perfect.”

“No way.” Sansa makes a sound of incredulity, shaking her head vigorously. “He looks like he’s been tried for first degree murder, and a total beefcake. _So_ not my type. And besides, he’s—”

“A high school boy,” Alys finishes, rolling her eyes playfully. “I know. I know.”

Sansa was of the philosophy that high school boys were immature and light years behind their female companions, even at somewhere as sophisticated as Queenscrown. All most of them wanted to was light up or have sex or use sports as an excuse to beat other people up. She had thought Joffrey was different once upon a time—he had a bookshelf in his room and always used to share obscure historical facts about the King’s Landing, and gave her expensive gifts and took her to the best restaurants in the city over the weekend. But he had just proved to be a different sort of boy. The worst kind.

Sansa is determined to be firm in her “No High School Boys” rule now more than ever. Even with a fake boyfriend.

“Doesn’t your brother have any frat parties coming up or something?”

Torrhen was Robb’s age, and attended White Harbor. He was cool for the most part, super easy going. Honestly, Sansa would have just tried to ask him to be her fake boyfriend, if they didn’t make a pact about dating each other’s brothers.

(This was created after Jeyne’s long enduring crush since birth on Robb—the very same she refused to acknowledge ever existed—ended.)

“I can ask.” Alys says helpfully. “Just remember to go for the pledges—they usually still have morals.”

***

If by the time Sansa had gotten out of school, all of the metaphorical dominos had fallen—

Then what happens next just flips the entire fucking table.

Jeyne blows her a kiss, and runs off to her first Mathletes meeting of the year, while Sansa and Alys sit at the front of the school, at one of the tables in the front yard. Alys is preparing for cheer practice, while Sansa is stuck waiting for Jon to get there.

Margaery approaches, with Wylla, Ros, and Meera following. They were already dressed in the staple cheer athletic gear: tank tops and spandex under cotton shorts. They plop their bags at the table, smiling at Sansa and Alys. It was Margaery’s smile in particular that made her queasy. It had lost some of its sugary sweetness, and was all serpentine. Her stomach lurches.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna join us Sansa?” Wylla asks. “I have some extra work out clothes that you could use. There’s still time for you to try out.”

“That’s okay.” Sansa smiles. “I think I’ll pass.”

There was no way she was gonna participate in anything that Margaery was in. It wouldn’t end well for her, just as Freshman year didn’t.

“Shame.” Margaery sighs, even though it really doesn’t sound like it is to her. “I know you’d be a great addition.”

It’s a struggle to keep her smile from slipping on her face.

“Are you really gonna keep holding out on us?” It’s Ros who speaks. She sits across from Sansa, and is rubbing scented lotion into her legs.

“About?”

“Your new boyfriend, silly.” Margaery beams.

Dread curdles in Sansa’s stomach.

Alys chokes on a swallow of water from her bottle.

_(Oh shit.)_

“He’s gotta be southern, right?” Meera questioned eagerly. Gods, even _Meera._ “Or did you meet him up here?”

If Sansa said he was southern, it would give any cheating rumor Joffrey spread credence. Girls always got it worse than the guys when it came to cheating on their partners. So Sansa says: “He’s northern, actually.”

“Oooh. Homegrown.” Wylla says appreciatively. “What school does he go to?”

“He’s in college. White Harbor University.” That part would be true soon enough at least, as soon as Torrhen introduced her to some guys. It wasn’t _lying._

“How mature.” Ros purrs. “You’ve got to bring him around sometime.”

She looks by all accounts genuine, but Ros is a good actress. Sansa suspects Margaery put her up to this. Or maybe had just planted the seed for her to start the conversation. However it happened, Sansa was now knee deep in a pile of shit because she didn’t know how to let her pride get the best of her.

Sansa plays off her apprehension with a shrug. “Maybe,”

“Maybe?” Margaery prompts.

_(She’s enjoying this.)_

“He can be a little shy, sometimes.” Sansa says lamely. “Not really a people person.”

“Our very own social butterfly dating a stereotypical loner.” Meera jokes. “I guess opposites really do attract.”

Sansa laughs. _Does it sound as offkey as I feel?_ “I guess!”

“Could we at least get a name?” Wylla asks. Her and Meera were the only ones at a loss for what was going on, and just thought it was a good natured gossip session.

(It wasn’t.)

“I’m not sure he’d be comfortable with that.” Sansa says, the lie feeling half baked in her mouth. “We’re trying to keep everything under wraps right now.”

“So secretive.” Ros mutters, her suspicions clear in her eyes.

Margaery uses this as her opening.

“I agree. I mean—you won’t tell us his name. You won’t introduce us. You haven’t posted him on Instagram or Snapchat. What’s the reason for all the secrecy?”

She’s practically smiling right now, close to it, and Wylla, Meera are leaning in, curious to know Sansa’s answer to this when she doesn’t have one. It’s the worse thing that could happen today, her being outed as a loser who would lie about having her own boyfriend. She would never recover from this.

But Alys steps in.

“She just got out of a very public relationship, Marge.” She snaps. “Maybe for once, she’d like it to be her own and not have to share it with everyone else.”

There’s silence. Meera and Wylla seem to be stewing in shame, remembering their questions, while Ros, who clearly isn’t buying it, scoffs. Margaery just blinks, and then fakes a pouts in confusion.

“Well, if she didn’t want to share it with us, then why did she tell us?”

_Shit._

_Shit._

Alys’ rebuff wasn’t enough for Margaery, and nothing ever would. She would keep going and going until she found the truth, or until Sansa confessed to her privately that it was all a lie and begged her to keep her secret. Margaery would do it, but then Sansa would be under her thumb for the rest of the year. She wanted utter defeat or a wheedling surrender, and—

Sansa wasn’t going to give her either.

But she had to think, come up with something to convince her and everyone else—

And that is the moment she gets the text.

For some odd reason, her ringer is on. Everyone checks their phone to make sure it’s not them, but Sansa felt the vibration. Desperate to buy time, she reads the text.

**_Jon:_ ** _Outside._

Sure enough, he is, idling along the curb, looking down at the phone. Through the window, he doesn’t even look like Jon, with his crannogmen cap pulled down over his head and sunglasses sitting on his nose. Behind him, Jory’s car idles as well. She has about an entire nanosecond to think the whole thing through.

(She doesn’t.)

“Oh! There he is, right now.” Sansa says, pointing to the car. In an instant, the girls heads snap to the gray Mazda, inspecting it curiously. Alys doesn’t have to look long; she knows exactly who it is. Her eyes become the shapes of saucers. While the girls aren’t looking, she tugs on the sleeve of Sansa’s jacket hard, and gives her a look that communicates something like: _You’re insane._

And all Sansa can do is shrug helplessly, as she watches everything spin completely and totally out of her control, and give her a look that hopefully communicates: _Do not, under any circumstances, tell Jeyne._

“You weren’t kidding about the secretive thing.” Ros scrunches her nose. “What is he, a westerosi secret agent or just a creepy perv?”

“He uh...he burns easily in the sun.” Sansa says weakly.

“Shut up, Ros.” Wylla says. “Look at all that stubble. I think he’s dreamy, Sansa.”

“Boy’s got a jawline for days.” Meera sighs.

“Hm.” Margaery hums. She’s no longer smiling. Her face is pinched. She looks vaguely irritated, but not quite sold. “You could do better, Sansa. His car looks cheap.”

Her phone chirps again. Another text from Jon. Probably reiterating that he’s waiting. Sansa shoulders her purse, and hugs each of the girls. She saves Alys for last, who is now smiling like she knows the world’s best kept secret.

“Jeyne’s gonna kill you when I tell her.” She whispers in her ear.

Sansa squeezes her friend, tight enough just to make it threatening. “Not if I kill you first.”

When they part. Alys doesn’t look the slightest bit scared.

_(It was worth a try.)_

Sansa makes her way down to the car on legs that feel like jelly. She opens the door, and slides into the front seat, letting her purse fall into her lap. “Oh my gods.” She says to herself out loud, earning a concerned, confused look from Jon.

“Are you okay?”

In the rearview mirror, Sansa can see all of the girls watching them, and she wants to scream. She knows what she has to do. Know that she put herself in this position. Knows that there’s nothing she can do to change it.

“Shut _up_ .” She blurts, both to him and her conscience, which is screaming at full volume in her head, (STOP! STOP! STOP! GET OUT OF THE CAR AND RUN!) But for once, Sansa allows herself to focus on Jon. His eyes. His mouth. The curve of his jaw, which did indeed, go for days. _Jon._

“What?” Jon asks, equal parts bewildered and annoyed at her tone. He’s a little cute when he’s annoyed, that should make this easier.

“I said,” Sansa presses the button on the car door that lets the window come down. The girls outside, they could not mistake what was about to happen here for anything else. They were looking for a show, and she had to give them one. “Shut _up._ ”

Jon opens his mouth to speak, eyes narrowed and–

Sansa _kisses_ him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify—I like Margaery’s character and I find her interesting. While she is an antagonist in this au, she also has her own side of the story, so keep that in mind!
> 
> Tell me what you think! Favorite lines? Parts, characters? I wanna hear it all! Drop a comment below. If it’s something you want me to see sooner rather than later, you can also talk to me @jeynesgreyjoy on tumblr. Thanks for reading! 
> 
> (Question of the chapter: Are there any characters that have been mentioned so far that you’re excited to see in the story? Or ones we’ve already been introduced to that you wanna hear more from?)


	6. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One minute, he’s sitting in the car, watching Sansa have what appears to be an existential crisis, and then taking it all out on him for daring to care, and then she’s lunging over the console, and kissing him. 
> 
> And Jon is gratuitously aware that this should not be happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE UPDATE!
> 
> So I know I said this was a combo chapter but I got started writing and realized that I couldn’t give you guys emotional whiplash like that lol. With that being said, this is pretty short, and the next chapter, which is DEFINITELY going to be a combo chapter, is still coming on New Years. Enjoy!

**Jon**

It happens so fast, Jon doesn’t even have time to  _ blink. _

One minute, he’s sitting in the car, watching Sansa have what appeared to be an existential crisis, and then taking it all out on him for daring to  _ care _ , and then she’s lunging over the console, and  _ kissing  _ him. 

And Jon is gratuitously aware that this should  _ not  _ be happening.

Right now. On today of all days, when she had left the car beyond upset with him, and Jon hadn’t been quite sure how he had managed to mess things up between them even more. There was also the fact that he was  _ Jon:  _ mopey, regular, boring Jon, dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and jeans, and Sansa was Sansa: confident, stunning, exciting  _ Sansa.  _ Girls like her did not kiss boys like him—that was just known. But here she was; kissing him. He just sits there for the first few seconds, too in shock to do much of anything. 

And the thing is—

Sansa does not kiss like she does everything else. 

Which is to say, gracefully. With ease. But not this. This was a bit awkward, but firm all and determined all the same. Her lips are sticky with lipgloss, and she tastes like cherries and something tart. Her hand had wrapped around her neck to bring him closer, but now it trembles slightly. She’s nervous, and that realization does weird things to his chest.

_ It’s wrong.  _ She’s Ned’s daughter. Robb’s little sister. Arya’s older sister.  _ So wrong,  _ he thinks, as the scent of lavender continues to envelop him. Entrance him.  _ Horribly wrong _ , he reminds himself, as he smells her strawberry shampoo, feels her hair tickling his cheek. Nothing good will come out of this, his mind shouts at him, as he watches his hand reach up grasp her chin gently, bringing her closer—

And Jon is so fucking tired of  _ thinking. _

He kisses her back. 

And it’s  _ new,  _ but then it becomes familiar all too quickly. As if this is something they had been doing this whole time. It might have started off a little clumsy, but it doesn’t remain that way. Her mouth turns out to fit perfectly against his, almost suspiciously so. There’s fucking  _ fireworks.  _ They go off in his stomach and his chest and all he can hear is his heart, thudding away in his ears, and there’s only the insistent tug of her lips, and the light scrape of her teeth and the feeling of her skin, as soft as silk, underneath his hands, and her—

It’s only her.

The pace Sansa sets is deliberately slow, almost  _ consciously  _ unhurried, and it makes him ache everywhere. Jon wants her closer,  _ needs  _ her closer, and while it does occur to him that that is something he should definitely be ashamed about, he cannot find it in himself to care when her nails are dragging against his scalp like this. She tilts her head, angling closer, and Jon swipes at the cushion of her bottom lip with his tongue, and she makes this  _ sound,  _ all high pitched and shocked and quavering and  _ needy _ . Sansa pulls back not a nanosecond after, as a shiver is still running down Jon’s spine from the way it echoes in his head.

They’re quiet, save for all of the heavy breathing, and they go statue still. Sansa straightens her clothes, and clears her throat in an effort to compose herself, but Jon cannot do the same, because he’s still  _ frozen  _ like a dumbass.

  
  


“Hello.” She greets him after her breathing has steadied, fucking  _ belatedly _ and  _ formally,  _ like his tongue hadn’t been just about to make its way down her throat mere seconds ago.

_ (The fuck?) _

Jon licks his lips. All he can taste is artificial cherry. “Hi.”

Sansa turns her attention outside of the window. Something she sees out there clearly pleases her, because she lets out a long exhale, and rolls it back up. He tries to look too, but he doesn’t find anything. Just an empty table.

There are questions Jon is dying to ask her at the moment. Questions like:  _ What are you looking for? Why did you kiss me? Why did you stop? Why are your lips so soft?  _ But his brain is too foggy, and every word he wants to say clogs up his throat and his lips are tingling, and all he can do is just sit there and  _ stare. _

“Not a lot of cloud coverage today.”

Jon blinks. “What?”

“The sky.” Sansa clarifies, not even bothering to look at him. She has pulled down the sun visor and is making use of the mirror, just like she had this morning. All of her smeared gloss is gone, and she’s putting on a fresh coat, Puckering up her lips. It’s  _ agonizing.  _ “It’s clear. The perfect summer day, don’t you think? It’s a shame school started today.”

Jon’s jaw hinges. He tries to close it, but it just opens again. They had just been kissing, and now she was acting like it had never happened.

_ (My dick is still half hard, and she’s talking about the fucking weather.) _

Just as he opens his mouth to utter something along the lines of,  _ What the fuck,  _ and demand an explanation, the passenger door suddenly whips open. It’s Arya, with her backpack slung over one shoulder, and a hand on her hip. Jon quickly wipes at the lipgloss smears on his face. 

“I have shotgun.” Arya tells Sansa, without any greeting or even a nod of acknowledgement. Her arms are crossed over her chest, as if she was ready for any argument. “Jon said so this this morning.”

Sansa didn’t look like she was in the mood for any kind of argument. “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes, and migrates to the backseat without much of a fight. Arya happily takes her place in the front seat, and Jon quickly yanks off his sweatshirt and uses it to inconspicuously cover up the embarrassing situation in his lap.

“Hey.” She slams the door shut.

Jon coughs. “Hi. Good day at school?”

The rest of the car ride is Arya complaining about all of her teachers, with the exception of Mr. Forell, her soccer coach who also taught World History. Jon tries to listen to it all, hums in all the right parts and asks questions when prompted to, but his gaze keeps going to the rearview mirror, to Sansa, who’s typing away on her phone, not looking up to meet his eyes once. 

When they get home, Sansa is the first out of the car, dashing up the steps, while Arya waits for him to get out, so she can continue ranting about this guy who was apparently the “biggest douchebag” in her auto shop class. Jory gets out of the sedan he had been trailing them in and approaches them before they get to the door.

“Your Grace.” Jory bows stiffly. “I think there’s something that you should know before you go inside.” 

Jon waits for him to continue, but he gives a not so discreet disapproving glance, and she scowls. Jon claps a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you. Give me a second.”

She doesn’t say anything, just gives Jory a venomous look, and then stomps into the house. He waits until the door has slammed shut completely to speak. 

“You still have...gloss on your lip.”

Jon freezes.

_ (He knew.) _

_ (Of course he knew, he was there the whole time. _ )

_ (How could you be so stupid?) _

“Oh. Yeah.” Jon splutters, cheeks growing hot. “About that…”

“It’s none of my business, your Grace.”

But it  _ was.  _ That was the reason Jory had felt the need to tell him in the first place. His first priority was to protect him, which he could hardly do if he had to defend his charge from his employer after said charge decided to make out with his daughter. Not only that, but the way Jory was looking at him made Jon feel like a dirty creep taking advantage of a young girl.

She was only  _ two  _ years younger than him. And it was Sansa who kissed  _ him.  _ All Jon had done was kissed back. 

“It’s not…we aren’t together.” Jon stammers. “I haven’t—”

“No need to explain yourself to me, your Grace. ” Jory interjects, voice detached and polite. 

He didn’t look like he bought Jon’s explanation in the least bit. 

Jon sighs helplessly, and wipes at his face once more, thankful that Arya had been too caught up in storytelling to see it. The cherry is still overpowering, and all he can taste in his mouth, and then he’s thinking about  _ her  _ mouth and then he’s submerged in a tidal wave of guilt, remembering Jory’s disapproving look, and then the cycle starts all over again. Vicious. Relentless. He knows it’ll be even worse tonight, in the bathroom, when she’ll walk through wearing one of those silk pajama sets and Jon groans.

_ (Yeah.) _

_ (Dirty creep sounds about right.) _

***

Usually, when it came to girls, Robb was always the first person he went to. 

Obviously, that would not be the case this time around. 

Jon’s options were pretty limited. Rhaenys would pick up the phone whenever he called, no matter what she was doing, but he knew that she would blow this way out of proportion, just as she did with the whole necklace thing, and that was the last thing he needed right now—his sister, or any of the girls for that matter, getting inside his head and fucking things up even more. Theon was out of the question—Jon barely liked him on a good day, and he’d snitch to Robb on him in a heartbeat just for the drama of it all. 

So basically—

Jon’s beyond fucking desperate when he dials his older brother’s number. 

“Nice to see you haven’t forgotten about little old me,” Egg answers on the second ring, in lieu of a normal greeting.

“I haven’t forgotten about you.” Jon says, offended. “I call all the time.”

“You call Rain.” He corrects. “And then she gives the phone to me. I just don’t understand why. I’m  _ way _ more interesting.”

Jon called Rhaenys because Egg never bothered to answer his phone, but nevermind that. He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling deeply. “Aegon.”

“ _ Jaehaerys _ .” Egg mocks his tone, all serious and grumpy. When Jon doesn’t snort out a laugh like he usually does, Egg sobers. “What’s up?”

“Something…” Jon falters. “Something  _ weird _ just happened.”

“Something weird?” Egg inquires. 

“Something crazy. Insane. Abnormal.” Jon elaborates.

“Was it the fun kind of weird at least?”

_ (Fun. Hot. Awesome. And wrong—really, really, wrong. Even though it felt really really right too.) _

“It was…there’s this girl. She kissed me today.”

Egg laughs, as if that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Somebody kissed  _ you _ ?”

“Whatever.” Jon snaps. “This was a mistake. I’ll call you later—”

“No, no! Dude, I didn’t mean it like that!” Egg’s laughter quickly fades at the mention of Jon potentially hanging up the phone. “It’s just…in a week you’ve gotten more action than you have in the two months Rain and Dany spent trying to set you up with every available girl in the south.”   
  


“I didn’t ask them to do that.” Jon says for what feels like the millionth time. He  _ didn’t.  _ “You know how they are! They never listen.”

“True.” Egg acquiesces. “But continue: there’s this girl who kissed you. So far, I’m not seeing a problem. Is she ugly?”

“No! No. She’s...” Stunning. Gorgeous. Incredible...and out of his league ten times over. “She’s beautiful.”

“Is that abnormal? For beautiful girls to kiss you?”

“No.” Jon snipes. Even though he had exactly one girlfriend in his entire life, he had kissed a few, and they were all pretty. Just not Sansa. “It’s just…we’ve known each other for a really long time and she’s never really—well she did show interest, but it was like for two seconds—"

“She showed interest today, too.” Egg points out. “She did kiss you.”

And that was all Jon was trying to figure out, at the end of the day;  _ why.  _

Sansa might have found him attractive, and even that assumption was a big  _ maybe,  _ but that doesn’t explain why she kissed him. She couldn’t even look at him this morning, wouldn’t even let him touch her, and then, out of the blue, she just  _ kisses  _ him. For a solid minute, maybe two. It didn’t make any sense, any of it, and the fact that there might be the slightest possibility that Sansa might have a crush on him—

It’s unbelievable. 

(It makes his stomach flip.)

“Again...still not seeing the problem.” Egg says, breaking Jon’s prolonged silence. “You think she’s hot. She thinks you’re hot. You guys kissed. And the thing that’s stopping you from making a move is…what? You’ve known each other for awhile?”   
  


Jon bites back a sigh. “Not awhile. A long time. Our whole lives, practically.”

_ And her father all but raised me.  _ He thinks to himself.  _ My mother thought of her as a daughter. Her brother is my best friend, and so is her sister.  _

It would change everything.

“Wait…” Egg trails off. “Is this about that girl that Rain and Dany were talking about with Arianne the other day? The one you bought the necklace for?”

“How did you—why are they—" Jon blusters, mouth agape. “Don’t you guys have  _ anything _ better to do than talk about my romance prospects?”

“That’s what I said!” Aegon crows. “But then Dany got pissy and was all like—” he starts talking in a high pitched, haughty voice.  _ “Shut up, Egg. You’re just jealous because you’ve never been interested in a girl for more than the time it takes you to get your pants off.” _

Despite his annoyance, Jon can’t help but snort. It sounds exactly like something Dany would say. “Ouch.”

“I  _ know _ .” Egg scoffs. “That’s like, slut-shaming right? Not very feminist of her, I’ll say.”

Jon doesn’t bother pointing out that Aegon is a man, and that men rarely get slut shamed, because he’d just accuse him of taking Dany’s side. Their rivalry for baby of the family was notorious, and it didn’t stop, even when Jon made his way out of the woodwork. 

“So what should I do, Egg?” 

“Well,” He huffs. “Assuming this about the Stark girl and that you’ve been interested in this whole time—”

“I haven’t been interested in her this whole time.” Jon says hotly, because he  _ hasn’t,  _ and the accusation frankly insulted him.

“You  _ kissed _ her. Seems pretty interested to me.”

“She kissed me first!” 

“And now you can’t stop thinking about it. That’s why you’re calling me, isn’t it?” Egg says, but he answers his own question in the same breath. “Because you’re horny for your pseudo-sister-cousin-relative, or whatever she is.”

“We’re not  _ related. _ ” Jon reminds his brother, reminds himself.

No, none of them were related, but Arya still felt like his sister. Robb still felt like his brother. So did Bran and Rickon. But Sansa—she had never felt like his sister. Even early on. 

“And isn’t that great news for you?” The smugness in Egg’s voice radiates off him in waves. 

“I don’t even know why I called you!” Jon explodes, raking a hand through his hair, close to pulling it out. “This isn’t helping at all.”

“Of course it is.” Egg argues, and snorts, like he’s being purposely dumb. “I just  _ gave _ you your solution.”

“Where in  _ any  _ of that was a solution?” 

“Well, I didn’t want to say it out loud, I’m not so uncouth.” Egg drawls. “But what you need is a good lay.”

“For fuck’s  _ sake— _ Jon flushes, nearly hanging up the phone at that moment. 

“I’m dead serious.” And gods, he  _ is _ . Matter of fact too. “When was the last time you even had sex? Yvette?”   
  


“Ygritte.” Jon corrects. He wasn’t going to dignify that question with an answer, although he knew very well that Egg already knew the answer. 

It was an embarrassing answer.

“It’s no wonder you’re going so batshit over a kiss!” Egg exclaims. “You need to stick your dick into something. End of story. And if it isn’t going to be Samantha—”

“ _ Sansa.”  _ Jon cuts in through gritted teeth, because just the mention of her name and dick in the same vicinity made him uncomfortable. 

“—then at least do it with someone else.” Egg continues, completely ignoring the interruption. “There’s only so much a man can take, Jon. I’m just saying.”

Ygritte had told him the same thing once, when she took him back to her dorm on the first date, and he was afraid of what her roommate would think. But she had ended up being wrong about a lot of things. And Egg didn’t have the best track record either. “Aren’t you like, a sex fiend?”

“I am n—” Egg begins heatedly. “Oh, who told you  _ that _ ? Daenerys?” 

Jon doesn’t answer. 

(It had, infact, been Dany.)

“That’s…not the point.” Egg takes a calming breath, but something tells Jon that Dany was going to pay for that one. “You need to trust me, Jon. Have I ever lead you astray?”   
  


_ Was that a serious question?  _ “Yeah, actually. Purposely. On several occasions.”   
  


“Oh.” Egg winces. “Well, this isn’t one of those times. How’s that saying go again? Big brother knows best?”   
  


Jon frowns. “I don’t think that’s a saying.”   
  


“It is now.” Egg declares proudly. “I just made it one. Now, listen to your big brother, and go fuck the shit out of somebody. Simply!”

Jon facepalms, hanging up the phone without another word. He lets his head fall on top of the desk. Egg had just suggested sex, and now he was painfully reminded of how long it had actually been, and then he was painfully reminded of Sansa, and his kiss with Sansa, and not so shockingly, he thinks about  _ sex  _ with Sansa—

He does it three more times for good measure. 

Some help that was.

***

Jon has never been good at confrontation. 

Ever. Maybe it’s because he’s antisocial, or maybe it’s because as much as he prides himself on his ability to read people, he could not, for the life of him, figure which situations were acceptable for a confrontation. But whatever it is, this is how he finds himself pacing outside of Sansa’s door an hour after dinner, attempting to convince himself to actually go inside. 

Dinner was another event in which she had completely ignored him. She had went as far as to sit near the furthest corner of the table. She steps on his toe once, when Ned asks how the pick up and drop off for school had went and he completely froze, but other than that, Sansa is the first one to leave the dinner table, and afterwards, pays him no mind.

And if Jon’s going to be honest here—

It pisses him off. 

He should be the one avoiding her like the plague. She is the one who kissed him out of the blue, made  _ out  _ with him, even, and now he just didn’t exist. He had thought about hardly anything else, ever since he got home, but Sansa just continued on like nothing had happened. She had fucked with his entire psyche and sent him into full crisis mode without breaking a sweat. 

So yeah, Jon’s pacing outside of Sansa’s room, angry as hell, but he’s just as  _ unsure  _ and  _ afraid  _ of her answer, that it keeps him from actually knocking.

Because if by some miracle, Sansa confessed that she kissed him because she had feelings for him, it would ruin everything. Because he’d have been an asshole for kissing her back and leading her on. Jon would have to let her down gently, and they’d never be the same again. Absolutely  _ nothing  _ could happen between them. Even if by sheer luck, Ned approved, Robb wouldn’t like it and Arya would hate him. Rickon and Bran would probably be weirded out. It would be better for their family, for the entire universe, really, if it didn’t happen. 

And if she  _ didn’t  _ have feelings for him…if it was really all just for nothing, then—

That’d be better for everyone too.

(His stomach sinks at the thought.)

“What are you doing?” 

Jon stops his pacing to find Rickon standing in front of him, dressed in his Batman pajamas, staring up at him curiously. His big blue eyes flick towards Sansa’s door. 

_ Shit. _

“Um…I’m…” Jon snaps his fingers when he finally thinks of the excuse, and presses his finger to his lips, whispering. “Shh! I’m trying to think of a way to scare Sansa.”

“Oh!” Rickon nods in understanding, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “Can I help?” 

_ Shit. _

“Didn’t your Dad say it was your bedtime, bud?” Jon says, crouching down. “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“He wouldn’t have to know.” Rickon begs, bouncing on his toes. “Please, Jon? Please? Please please please—”

“Alright.” Jon shushes him, because his pleas are starting to get louder and he hears Sansa stirring in her room. He quickly thinks of something that ought to keep Rickon busy. “But first, you have to go down to the basement and get my werewolf mask.” 

Rickon pales. “The basement?” 

Robb had told him a story a few years back about basement dwelling monsters who eat toes to keep Rickon out of the basement while they were smoking. It worked perfectly, considering that Rickon went almost everywhere barefoot. Apparently, it worked so well that after four years, he still wouldn’t set foot in the basement.

Jon had been counting on that.

“Yep. It’s the most important part of the plan.” Jon says solemnly. “And you’re the only one I can trust to do it.” 

“Seriously?” Rickon’s back straightens proudly.

“Seriously.”

He takes a shaky breath, balling his hands up into fists. “Okay. I guess I could try.”

Rickon looks so frightened that Jon nearly feels bad, because he didn’t even know if the mask was still down there. But still, he stands up, giving him a fist bump, saying: “Don’t come back until you find it.” 

Rickon scampers off.

Jon would come downstairs to get him before any real psychological damage could be done. This would take five minutes at the most. He’d be in and out, and then he’d know. 

_ I’ll know.  _

_ I’ll know _ .

Jon uses this mantra to give him the strength to step forward and turn the doorknob before any of the other Starks found him lurking, or worse, before his thoughts could convince him otherwise, and—

“Oh my—dammit!” 

Jon almost pivots back around, closing his eyes, because he thought he had caught her  _ naked _ like she had caught him this morning, but he sees enough to know that she’s wearing clothes.  _ Normal  _ clothes. Not any of the frilly, thin silk she usually wore. But in an gray tee that read Queenscrown Athletic Department, something he’d seen Robb where a couple of times, and a pair of fuzzy shorts. Her face is a bright greenish blue, probably from some sort of face mask, and her hair is piled up messily at the top of her head. It’s such a bizarre sight that Jon thinks he’s hallucinating it, until a hard, circular pillow comes flying at his face. 

“Ow!” Jon shouts. “That was my  _ eye. _ ”

“Then stop looking at me!” Sansa screeches, raising another pillow threateningly. “What happened to knocking?”

“I forgot!” Jon says defensively, rubbing his left eye. When his vision clears up, a laugh escapes his mouth unbidden. “Are those  _ ladybugs _ on your shorts?”

Sansa hauls another pillow at him, but despite his stomach hurting from laughter, he sees it coming, and is able to dodge it quickly. Same with the next one. And the next one.

“What do you  _ want _ ?” Sansa growls, coming to terms with the fact that she’s run out of pillows, and using the book she was reading on her bed to obscure her face from his view.  _ Florian and Jonquil.  _

Jon sobers quickly, remembering that he had came here for a reason, and that reason was not Sansa’s adorable pair of ladybug shorts. “I was wondering…” he rubs at the back of his neck. “We should talk. About today, I mean. In the car.” 

A moment of silence. 

Sansa huffs, letting her book fall back onto the bed. “Give me a minute.” She tells him, as if this was the last thing she wanted to do. She disappears, leaving Jon alone in her room, something he’s never seen save for the occasional crack through their adjoined bathroom. 

Jon takes it all in. 

It’s just as big as his, which is to say, comfortably big. The walls are painted pale lavender, and the one closest to where the desk resides is taped over with all sorts of design ideas, all colorful and nothing he could have ever thought of. There’s a sewing machine on the desk, and two mannequins. In the farthest corner of the room, there’s a vanity swathed in scarves and a tray with perfume bottles, oils, and makeup brushes. In the corner of the mirror, a photo booth strip of her, Jeyne, and Alys sat, looking like they had been caught on camera midlaugh. It makes his lips quirk up, but not as much as the pictures Sansa has hanging on her wall.

There’s one of her and Rickon when he was still young, wading through the water of one of the hot springs at the Winterfell estate. There’s another of her and Bran, taken in one of their more legendary pillow forts that no one was allowed in except for Nan, and there’s one of her and Jeyne, dressed as Strawberry Shortcake and Orange blossom for Halloween, posing next to a pumpkin. There’s even one of Arya, but she’s just a baby in Catelyn’s arms, while Robb and Sansa are cuddled up next to her. It makes him sad. He had never met Catelyn, because by the time him and his mother had moved to Wintertown she had unfortunately passed away, but he felt her presence everyday. Felt how it hurt all of them, especially Bran. 

Jon does not see the one of him until the very last second. 

It’s from the Great Stark and Snow family camping trip six years ago. He knows because he can recall the moment exactly, and his mother is in the picture as well, guitar in hand. They’re sitting in front a fire, or more accurately, Sansa is sitting between his legs, bundled up in a blanket, and Jon has one arm wrapped around her shoulders to keep her close. She had fallen in the lake earlier that day, and although he couldn’t remember, it was definitely his fault. Jon had been punished by being banned from going on the night hike to look for grumpkin tracks and tell scary stories with the rest of the kids, Uncle Benjen, and Uncle Brandon. His mother forced him to keep Sansa, who was still shivering from her slip into the lake and refused to go hiking for grumpkins, company. He hadn’t minded all that much, because he made her cry that day, and was determined to get her to forgive him. She begrudgingly did so, but only because Robb wasn’t there to keep her warm, and her teeth were chattering. In the picture, they are still laughing at whatever silly lyrics Lyanna had made up to the tune of her guitar, and Ned had brought out his camera, promising he would show them this picture every time they swore they could never get along.

And  _ Sansa  _ had kept it. 

“What are you doing?” 

Jon’s head swivels towards the direction of her voice, and his own gets stuck in her throat. 

Her face is clear of her of all the green stuff, and it’s guarded. Wary. She’s shaking her hair out the loose knot she had it tied up in, and she’s wearing  _ bunny  _ slippers, and if Jon thought that casual Sansa would be any easier to talk to than Sansa in silk, because the fact of the matter was that she was just intimidating and beautiful no matter what. 

It’s disarming. 

“Waiting for you.” His mouth dries as he gestured to the wall. “Cool pictures.” 

Sansa isn’t moved by the compliment. It only seems to make her more defensive. More on edge. “Is this your pervy way of trying to get payback for this morning, or something? Barging into my room unannounced?”

“Pervy—“ Jon breaks off abruptly, face heating up, because his daily thoughts about her legs were decidedly pervy. “You’re calling  _ me _ the pervert? When you’re the one who basically attacked me with your mouth this afternoon?”

Sansa’s face flushes red, and her eyes narrow, and it’s fucking  _ satisfying _ . there it was, finally: proof that it had happened for her too. Evidence that she wasn’t so unaffected as she pretended to be.

“Oh give me a  _ break _ . Attacked you? If I let you keep going you probably would have  _ ravished _ me in the front seat!”

_ (Gods _ .  _ Had he really been that transparent?) _

“You’re so—” irritating. infuriating. Impossibly observant. His nostrils flare. “—Gods, you’re  _ unbelievable.  _ Is this what you usually do to boys you have crushes on? Some kind of  _ fucked up _ reverse psychology?”

Sansa rears back, cheeks stained pink. “I am not—I do  _ not _ have a crush on you. Seven hells! Get over yourself.”   
  


Jon may or may not have been expecting such a reply. He lets out a sigh of relief, ignoring the way his gut is twisting and forges on. 

“So you just  _ go around _ kissing people you don’t have crushes on?”   
  


“It was  _ necessary _ ! I didn’t have a choice.”   
  


“Explain it to me, then.” 

Sansa exhales, sitting down on the white leather couch near the window, rubbing at her temples. “My ex from King’s Landing—he has a new girlfriend. Margaery Tyrell threw it in my face today and to one up her I foolishly told her I already had another boyfriend.”   
  


“Oh.” Her ex from King’s Landing. The reason she had come home in the first place. The one he kept hearing about. The one that made her freeze up everytime he was brought up. Had Jon read it all wrong? Was it really just a bad break up? Did she really just miss him, and was torn up over the fact that he had moved on?

“I got on her bad side earlier at lunch, so she tried to catch me in the lie, and I  _ panicked  _ and you were already there so—” She wrings her hands, biting her lip.

“Logically, you kiss me.” Jon hears himself finish for her, bewildered. Annoyed.

“Logically.” Sansa repeats weakly. “Listen, it’s just–my ex…he isn’t the nicest guy. He’s spread all these rumors about me because he’s mad at me, and I have no clue what everyone believes, and I just figured if I had control of this one thing—”

She stops suddenly, mouth shutting. Her jaw is set, and she takes a deep breath, as if she’s calming herself. That wasn’t longing. That wasn’t missing him. She hated his guts, and Jon immediately did too, if he went this much out of his way to make her life difficult.

He’s still annoyed at her for dragging him into this mess, but he sits down beside her anyways, in some attempt to appease her. “He sounds like an asshole.”   
  


Sansa lets out a choked laugh. “You have no idea.”    
  


And then he  _ knows.  _

From the way she’s rubbing at the inside of her wrist compulsively, bending it like she’s making sure it’s not broken, and the way her shoulders are curled inward like she’s trying to make herself smaller, and her eyes, all glassy and far away, and then Jon remembers  _ “something bad happened,”  _ and  _ “it’s not my story to tell,”  _ and  _ “you don’t know what kind of world I’ve had to live in,”  _ and  _ “she told you”  _ and he’s stupid, how could he have been so blind and obtuse–

“He hurt you.”   
  


Her head snaps up. Sansa stops rubbing at her wrist. He can’t read the look in her eyes, not completely, but he knows shame when he sees it. Embarrassment. “Jon…”

She says it like she means to say something else, but she can’t quite get it out. And he knows. He  _ knows. _

“Tell me I’m wrong.” Jon says,  _ pleads.  _ His hands are shaking, and itching and he wants to hurt something. Him. This guy, whoever he is. 

She doesn’t answer.

Jon feels like he’s gonna be sick.

His hands are shaking, and itching and he wants to hurt something. Him. This guy, whoever he is. Whatever he did to her, Jon would make him feel that, a thousand fold. And even after that, it still wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t  _ ever  _ be—

“I’m gonna kill him. I’m going to  _ find  _ him, and I’m gonna—” He doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until he feels a tug at his shirt, fisted in a white knuckle grip and Sansa is looking at him, eyes wet with unshed tears, and she’s begging him, just as he was begging her, moments before. 

Her voice is raw, uncut steel. “ _ Stop _ .” 

The rage Jon feels that threatens to engulf him, swallow him whole, is only, barely stopped short of her hand on his arm. The way she’s looking at him. As if  _ he  _ was hurting  _ her _ by talking this way, and it’s the last thing he’s ever wanted to do.

So he stops. 

It takes everything in him, but he does it anyway.

Sansa lets go, standing up from the couch, and glaring at him. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you.”   
  


She hadn’t wanted him to know. If it had been up to her, he probably never would have found out. That hurts more than it should. “Why?”    
  


“ _ Because _ —” She explodes, cutting herself off shortly. Her voice is still trembling. “I’m  _ fine _ . I’m here. I made it out  _ alive _ . I don’t want you looking at me like  _ that _ . I don’t want you feeling sorry for me and I don’t need you trying to protect me from something that’s already happened.”

It burns. It stings. That he couldn’t have helped her when whatever happened happened, that she thought she couldn’t call him, but nothing hurts more than her own disregard for herself. The way she was trying to downplay it all like it was nothing.

“This isn’t pity. That’s not what this is.”   
  


Sansa shakes her head, like she doesn’t believe him, and turns around to face away from him.

Jon stands up, storming over to her. He almost takes her hand, but he doesn’t want to scare her, or upset her more than he already has. He stops just short of it, letting his hand fall to his side.

She doesn’t move away.

“I’m angry I wasn’t there to protect you, and I know that’s stupid, and I know it’s too late and that hurting him won’t solve anything and it won’t take anything back—”

He stops. He can feel his voice start to crack, because there it is again. That resentment, that fury stronger than anything he had ever felt. He takes a moment, has to draw a breath.

(She looks at him.)

(Jon’s never felt more helpless.)

“It’s not fair.” He says quietly. “You didn’t—it’s not  _ fair _ .”

Sansa doesn’t answer, not at first.

But she’s turned around, and her lashes are lowered, and all the fight seems like it’s left her body. 

“If I thought like that, I’d never be able to move on.”

And that’s  _ Sansa.  _ Always pushing forward. Always strong. Always  _ trying _ . Compartmentalizing. Taking it all in stride. Jon doesn’t understand it, how she’s not angry, how she doesn’t  _ stay  _ that way. Gods knows that he’s been trying to do the same thing for 20 years, now.

“I guess that makes you a better person than I am.” 

Sansa wraps her arms around herself, ducking her chin. “Not really.” 

“ _ Yes _ , really.” Jon insists, voice firm.

She laughs again. It’s not genuine, but watery. She stops, swallowing, and sitting down heavily on the edge of her bed. 

“I’m so  _ tired  _ of being the better person.”

(He knows.)

(He  _ understands. _ ) 

Jon takes her into his arms. 

Sansa stiffens at first, fisting the front of his shirt. Her blue eyes are exhausted, and wary. Even tired, she’s still stubborn. “I don’t want your pity.”

He bites back a sigh. “I’m not pitying you. I’m holding you.”

She still isn’t buying it, not until Jon tugs her closer, resting his chin on the top of her head. She relaxes the tiniest bit.

“Just let me hold you.” 

She does.

He pretends not to notice to the tears soaking through his shirt, or her quiet sniffles, and maybe Sansa allows herself to pretend he’s someone else, like Robb. It must work just fine, because Jon’s lost all concepts of time with her in his arms. It could have been 20 minutes, or maybe hours, and he knows is her breath on his neck, and the smell of lavender and strawberry scented shampoo. At some point, they end up laying down, legs tangled.

“You’re good at this.” Sansa murmurs after the sniffling has long since stopped. 

“What?” Jon looks down at her. Her eyes are still red rimmed and puffy, but they aren’t wet anymore.

“Comforting people.” She says, and then hesitates. “Comforting me.”

He doesn’t really agree, since him coming here is what started this in the first place, but Jon doesn’t want to bring that up.

(He doesn’t quite feel like leaving.)

“I feel like I suck at it.

“You don’t. I suck.” She sits up on her elbows, biting her lip. “I’m sorry for getting mad at you about my car.”

“You were right. I shouldn’t have snuck out.” While the whole critique was very ill timed considering he was freshly raw from a verbal lashing from Ned, she hadn’t been wrong.

“I wasn’t.” Sansa counters. “You really helped me that day, and I shouldn’t have taken everything out on you.”

For a second, Jon is speechless.

“What?” Sansa frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He says, and then grins. “I don’t think you’ve ever apologized to me before.”

“I haven’t.” She says matter of factly. “I’ve never needed to. I’m usually always right.”

She was right about that too, but Jon didn’t intend to tell her that. Instead, he just snorts. “Yeah, okay.”

Sansa smiles, but it quickly fades. “Does this mean you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Forgive me.” She commands bossily, narrowing her eyes at him, and Jon can’t help but laugh. 

“Alright. I forgive you.”

Sansa sighs contentedly, and lays back down, this time nuzzling into the crook of his neck. Her nose is cool against his pulse point, and her hand is on his chest. Jon’s breath stutters.

(It would be humiliating, if she could hear how fast his heart was beating right now.)

“I’m sorry about today too.” She says, after another prolonged silence.

Jon has to cough to cover up his choke of surprise of the kiss being brought up again. But he regains his composure. “It’s fine.” 

(But it’s not fine. It really, really, isn’t.

It’s not fine because it was probably one of the best kisses he’d ever had, and probably the only one that had been so satisfying because,  _ yeah,  _ Jon had thought about kissing her once, or twice, and it had turned out to be way better than he thought it would be. It’s not fine, because now, it’s all he can think about. It’s not fine, because it will never happen again, and it was too extraordinary, too  _ right _ , for it to never happen again, and it would take him a long fucking time to forget about it. Get  _ this _ , whatever it was, out of his system. 

And just like that, Jon is all too aware of how close they are at the moment. After her shift, his hand had ended up on her lower back and one of her legs was hiked up over his hip and her hair, it’s fucking  _ everywhere,  _ and so is the scent of lavender and strawberries—

It’s not  _ fine. _

But it would be.  _ He  _ would be.)

“The girls–they didn’t know it was you.” Sansa is drumming her fingers against his collarbone, and fidgets like she always does when she feels guilty about something. “And they’ll totally forget about it by the end of the week, but...it was still dumb of me to take that risk. I should have found some other way.”   
  


It was honestly a little reckless, but it was only a few days before his house arrest was over. His things were already mostly moved to the estate. And he at least had a bodyguard with him at the time of his incident. Rhaegar would have been pissed, no doubt, but not as pissed as he would have been about finding out that he snuck out with Arya. The worst that could have happened, was that the press found out, and thought him and Sansa were dating, and then all of Westeros would know, and most importantly, the Starks, and his siblings. 

_ (At least Rhaenys would have stopped trying to play matchmaker.) _

“No big deal.” Jon says inanely. “It’s nothing.”

Sansa lifts her head up to face him, and he recognizes the slant of her brows all to well. The microscopic narrow of her eyes, and the part of her lips. 

He’s said something wrong, and he catches it much too late.

She hums. “Nothing?”   
  


“I mean—not the kiss.” Jon amends in a rush, such a rush, that he wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t understood what he said. So he pauses. “The kiss—that wasn’t nothing. The kiss was...that was–”   
  


“What?”   
  


The defensive slant of her brow is gone, replaced by a raise of curiosity. Seemingly innocent. But the way she’s trying not to smile, the way she flicks a barely there glance down at his lips, as if she’s recalling the moment, that’s anything but. That’s intrigue. That’s trouble. 

“What was it?” 

(He’s probably about to get hard again.)

(He  _ really  _ should leave.) 

And in that moment, it’s as if the universe  _ hears  _ him, truthfully. 

The bathroom door slams open against the wall, and Rickon jumps out, screaming bloody murder in the retrieved werewolf mask. Sansa starts shrieking, and accidentally shoves him off the bed. Jon lands on the floor with a hiss.

When he stumbles to his feet, Rickon is cackling maniacally, bouncing up and down, and Sansa is holding a hand to her chest, breathing heavily, eyes wide and  _ furious.  _

“Got you!” Rickon shouts triumphantly, pumping his fist. “You should have seen your  _ faces _ !”

“What are you doing lurking in the bathroom like a total  _ skeeze? _ ” She hisses, sliding out her bed and advancing on him. She rips the mask off his head.

Rickon opens his mouth, and behind Sansa, Jon shakes his head rapidly, miming an x over his chest, doing all that is possible to communicate to him that he could  _ not  _ be implicated in this prank. 

Thankfully, he understands, and puffs out his chest, “I was feeling  _ spontaneous. _ ”

“Oh  _ were _ you?” She grits out. “Then I guess you can explain that to Daddy when I tell him you’ve been out of bed this  _ whole _ time.”

“You can’t! That’s not fair!” Rickon says indignantly. “Jon said—”

“I said that I’d stay up to tell him a scary story.” Jon interrupts, shooting him a laser like  _ please shut the fuck up  _ stare over her shoulder. “He was probably waiting in my room, and heard us talking.”

“Yes.” Rickon agrees emphatically. “That’s  _ exactly  _ what happened.” 

(Jon had forgotten what it had been like to be 10 with all the subtlety of a fucking Mac truck.)

Sansa turns to look at him, brow furrowing. She doesn’t look completely convinced, and she takes a step back so that they’re both in her line of vision.

“That doesn’t explain what he’s doing with that horrible mask.” She accuses. “ _ Your  _ mask.” 

“I got it from the basement.” Rickon says, like its the most obvious thing in the world. Jon wants to  _ shake  _ him. Or duct tape his mouth. 

“Why were you in the basement? You hate it there.” Sansa asks sharply. 

“Uh–” He flounders. 

“I don’t think he meant the basement.” Jon laughs, as if the idea that the word in his vocabulary was inconceivable. “You know, I could have sworn I saw it Bran’s room.”   
  


“ _ Yes _ .” Rickon adds enthusiastically, snapping his fingers. “That’s exactly what I meant to say.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “How do you confuse the basement for Bran’s room?”   
  


Now  _ this _ , Rickon has an answer for. “ _ Duh,  _ the obliteration.”

Sansa stares at him, bemused, for the longest time, until she finally blinks, impossibly slow. “You mean the  _ alliteration _ ?” 

“Yeah! That stuff.”

_ (This kid is going to be the death of me.) _

Despite herself, Sansa exhales on a disbelieving laugh, which makes Rickon’s nose scrunch up. He did  _ not  _ like being laughed at. Before he can start an argument, and reveal the true mastermind behind his plans, Jon strolls over and lifts Rickon up into the air from under his arms. 

“Alright you, time for your story. Say goodnight to your sister.” 

Rickon sticks his tongue out at her, but Jon pinches his side. He grumbles “Goodnight,” and with help from Jon’s hands, he shuffles out into the hallway.

Just as Jon moves to close the door, Sansa stops it.

“You’re an idiot.” She tells him, because of  _ course _ she didn’t buy it. 

Jon tries for a weak smile, but it probably looks more like a grimace. “Truce?” 

Sansa smirks. It’s as menacing as it is lovely.

“In your  _ dreams. _ ”

  
  


***

While he’s escorting Rickon back upstairs to his room on piggyback, after he insisted that he’d die of thirst if he didn’t have a glass of water before bed, it occurs to Jon that seeing Sansa in his dreams tonight was almost certain.

( _ Fuck me.) _

“What were you doing in her room anyway?” Rickon inquires, tightening his grip. This question doesn’t send him in a panic; it was something Jon had prepared for.

“Distracting her. She caught me outside her door, so I had to improvise.” Jon pats his knee. “I’m glad you went on with the plan.”

Rickon smiles toothily. “I knew it was what you’d want me to do.”

Not really, but Jon was glad it happened. Who knew what would of happened if Rickon hadn’t came? If he had to tell her what he really thought about their kiss? If accidentally blurted out that all he wanted to do was do it again and again and—

There’s a yawn in his ear. Rickon leans his head into Jon’s. “Can I actually get a scary story?”

Jon chuckles. He had earned it. And it would keep Jon from being alone with his thoughts for a little while longer.

“Sure thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. I’m excited for the next one because we get to see some new faces, and a certain favorite makes a reappearance. Keep an eye out for it! 
> 
> Questions? Favorite lines/scenes? Predictions? I wanna hear it all! Drop a comment! If it’s something you want me to see sooner rather than later, come talk to me @jeynesgreyjoy on tumblr!


	7. Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa lasts approximately 2 minutes at school the next morning before Jeyne descends on her. 
> 
> It’s longer than she expected, honestly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR!
> 
> Thank you SO much for all the comments of love and support I’ve gotten for this story. I’m super grateful for you guys, and happy to be entering 2019 with you. 
> 
> This chapter killed a part of me....like it ripped me apart (not that it’s an especially emotionally taxing, I just really underestimated the work I had to put into writing it) I know if I end on this chapter feeling like this, I’m not gonna update for months so...I’m doing ONE LAST double update for chapter 8 because I’m really excited to write it. Give me 30 comments and it’s yours!
> 
> Enjoy this chapter! It’s a combined POV chapter, as promised.

**Sansa**

Sansa lasts approximately 2 minutes at school the next morning before Jeyne descends on her.

It’s longer than she expected, honestly.

But still, she startles a little when the door to the girl’s bathroom slams open. her brain is still swimming in morning haze and her eyes are still dropping, and the hand that holds her mascara wand trembles a little. Jeyne marches over, snatching it out of her hand to close it.

“You hypocritical little _slut puppy._ ” Jeyne hisses. She’s _pissed_ . She’s _delighted_. “YOU KISSED JON?”

Sansa winces.

What Jeyne is saying is a less vulgar version what she’d been telling her all night. Repeatedly. Through text, and Snapchat, and Instagram, and _voicemail_ —Sansa didn’t _dare_ answer any of her phone calls. She went on until two in the morning, and it’s exactly why she got only four hours of sleep last night.

  


There’s no point in delaying Jeyne any longer. “......Yes.”

Even though she definitely knew all along, she starts jumping around, cackling and pulling on Sansa’s arm. Sansa glowers. Jeyne halts her jumping, a smile too smug for Sansa’s liking lights up her face.

“How is this _any_ different than when I said you should bang him?”

“Because I didn’t have a _choice._ ” Sansa reminds her. “Marge needed to believe I had a boyfriend—”

“And Jon agreed to be this boyfriend?” Jeyne says, astounded.

Sansa cringes. She was going to have a field day with this one. “I didn’t really have a chance to tell him.”

“So you just PLANTED one on him?” Jeyne gasps. “Sansa Stark, you filthy whore!”

“I know, I know!” Sansa whines, covering her face. “I panicked!”

“Oh, you know I’m just fucking with you.” Jeyne teases, flipping her braids over her shoulder. She leans against the sink, and lowers her voice considerably. “So….”

Sansa blinks. “So?”

Jeyne rolls her eyes. “How was it?”

“It?” Sansa prompts, although she knows full well what _it_ refers to. She’d just like to ignore it for a little while longer.

“The _kiss!_ ” Jeyne whisper shouts. She grins wickedly. “How was it? Everything you ever _dreamed_?”

Sansa scowls, ignoring the flush creeping up her neck at her hormonal dreams she’d had when she was 15 being brought up _again._ But she also thinks, unbidden, that kissing Jon in her dream was nothing like kissing him in real life.

She actually _had_ him.

In the palm of her hand. Up close against her. He had _kissed_ her, had kept _wanting_ to kiss her. At first, it was all him, guiding her with his hands, telling her where to go, and how to move, and then it had become _easy._ He had been speeding up a little, as much as he was trying not too, but Sansa had the power to make him slow down. Pulling him closer and farther, dragging her fingernails against his scalp, sighing into his mouth, and it was so unnerving, how good she had become—not really at kissing, but kissing _him._ Jon was fully prepared to get lost in her. Sansa had him.

But he had her too.

It was hard, to actually recall why she was kissing him, and why she couldn’t _keep_ kissing him. Why she hadn’t been doing this the whole time. His mouth was strong and _searing_ and maybe even addictive. He tasted like that weird cinnamon gum he always used to chew in junior high, but Sansa didn’t remember it ever being so addictive. And the way he stroked her cheek, while holding her face in his hands so _gently,_ and in between quick breaths, when he’d bump their noses together, just for the sake of being closer—

Sansa shakes her head, squaring her shoulders. “It was a kiss.”

“A good one by the looks of it.” Jeyne quips, poking her cheek. “Your face is the color of a fire truck.”

“It is _not.”_ Sansa bats her hand away, fanning at her face to make the redness go down some before she left for class. “You’re annoying me, that’s why.”

Jeyne closes her eyes, hugging her arms close to her chest, and starts swaying to a nonexistent beat. She sings soulfully, dramatically, “Like a Virgin…..”

Sansa pushes her, flipping her off, but Jeyne’s giggles only become even more hysterical.

“So what happened next??”

“Next?”

“You kissed him. He kissed you back. What happened next?”

Sansa hesitates. “I didn’t know what to do, so I just did nothing. Tried to act like everything was normal.

“I’m sure that worked out swell.” Jeyne deadpans. “At least tell me you guys _talked_ about it.”

“We did. I explained it all and…” Sansa falters. “He found out about the whole Joffrey thing.”

“Oh.” Jeyne says quietly, all traces of amusement are gone from her face. “.....oh.”

Sansa has to be careful about what she says next.

She knows that it could be easily misconstrued, how Jon had comforted her last night. How he had just sat there and held her. But it was the same way Robb had held her when she first came home, and the same way she held Rickon when he was crying because he didn’t understand what had happened to her. It was pure comfort. An attempt to give her some semblance of safety. And it had worked, almost too well.

Hours after he left, Sansa still felt his arms around her, and his chin on top of her head. She tosses and turns for hours, curling into different positions to try to replicate the feeling and what it made her feel. Safe. Relaxed. At peace. Eventually settled for laying on the pillow he had been on. It still smelled like him. She fell asleep after awhile.

It was nothing like that kiss.

(It was everything like that kiss.)

“It wasn’t so bad.” Sansa says finally. “He was...I don’t know. It could have been way worse.”

“I’m sorry.” Jeyne takes her hand. “I know you didn’t want anyone else to find out.”

“It could be worse.” Sansa tries to smile bravely. “I just...It kinda complicates things now. I don’t want him to show our designs to the princess and Myranda just because he feels bad for me.”

“We’ll find another way, then.” Jeyne tells her, like it’s all settled.

But that wouldn’t be fair to Jeyne, who wanted this just as much as her and worked just as hard. Sansa couldn’t let her pride get in the way of their dream coming true. There weren’t a lot of other routes they could take. This was the only way. She’d just have to get Jon to see that she was more than what happened to her.

“No. It’s fine.” Sansa nods. “The plan is still on. This is just a slight delay.

But Jeyne clearly wasn’t so sure about that, because she opens her mouth, probably fixing to say something like _“You don’t have to do this, Sansa”_ or _“it’s fine, seriously”_ when Sansa cuts her off abruptly, not wanting to hear it. Not wanting to be convinced out of it.

“Isn’t Theon coming home today?”

Jeyne glares. “Don’t change the subject on me.”

“I’m not trying to!” Sansa says innocently, raising her hands up in defense. “But it’s my duty as your best friend to make sure you’re prepared. Do you even know what you’re wearing?”

Theon _was_ coming home today, after finishing up opening for the Golden Company on their Essosi tour with his band, Iron Born. It had been called something stupider when Robb was still in the band, so Sansa thought the name was a major upgrade. It also was musically too. As much as she was loathed to admit it, Theon was actually good on stage. Phenomenal, even.

Jeyne had always been a bit unrealistically optimistic, and Sansa always thought her faith in Theon was just another side effect of that. In music. In their relationship. But Sansa never really got to see them around each other, because they were purposely hiding it from her and everyone else all second semester of sophomore year. She only found out at the end of summer, two days before she was set to fly to King’s Landing and start her junior year, and Jeyne had all but told her she did that on purpose because she didn’t want Sansa to try to get her to reconsider a relationship with Theon.

(That’s exactly what she would have done, but never mind that.)

Almost three years later, and Theon was still unfathomably a fixture in Jeyne’s life. A few break ups here and there, but none of them ever lasted long. There was no cheating, just a lot of dramatics. But Jeyne and Theon were both inherently dramatic people, so that was bound to just be a constant.

“I’m in between outfits at the moment.” Jeyne confesses. “I was thinking something yellow. Like _canary_ yellow, because for some reason, every time he sees me in yellow he wants to like, rip my clothes off, and that’s kinda the reaction I’m going for but...I don’t think that would be the best idea, considering my Dad could be there…”

Sansa laughs, but links her arm through Jeyne’s and allows her to discuss her Theon arrival related troubles as they exit the bathroom. Sansa also keeps an eye out for Alys, hoping that she has time to murder her for telling Jeyne about the kiss so soon, but something hard and tall collides with her. Her binder and the contents of her pencil bag go scattering to the floor.

She sighs, irritated about having to go down to her knees in these heels, but the person who bumped into her beats her to it.

“Shit. Let me get that.”

Sansa does. It’s the least he could do.

And thankfully, he’s quick about it too—whoever this guy is. It’s a small school, and just from the top of his head, Sansa is pretty sure she’s never seen him before. It isn’t until he stands up to hand her her stuff that she’s absolutely _positive_ she has never seen him before.

He’s beautiful.

Curly light brown hair, brown skin, and dark eyes that are a little bit familiar. He’s tall too, a little taller than her, but he moves so easily. With such grace. And then he smiles at her apologetically, and a dimple flashes in his right cheek, as he runs a hand through his hair.

Sansa _swoons._

“Sorry.” Now that she focuses more on his voice, it sounds like sunlight. Not too deep. Not too high. “I‘m not usually such a klutz.”

“It’s okay.” Sansa says, maybe a little too quickly. She blushes. “I believe you.”

The beautiful boy’s smile turns genuine. He tucks the pencil he dropped on the floor behind his ear. “Thanks. See you around.”

He strolls off, leaving an air of cinnamon, and freshly cut grass, and Sansa isn’t aware that her mouth is ajar until Jeyne reaches up and closes it for her.

“Who was _that_?” She asks, just as impressed.

“I don’t know.” Sansa says breathlessly. “But I fully intend to find out.”

***

His name is Loras Tyrell. He’s Margaery’s twin brother.

It doesn’t take much work to find that out.

The whole school is abuzz about him, especially the girls. It’s all anyone talks about in class. Loras Tyrell, soccer legend from the reach. Him and Margaery were separated in the custody agreement in their parent’s divorce. Up until now, he was at school in the reach, but decided that he wanted to finish up his senior year living with his mother and sister instead. Nobody knows why. Some say it’s because he got kicked out. Others say his heart got broken from some Southern girl, and that he needed a change.

Sansa would be _more_ than happy to help him adjust.

She walks into her psychology class to find him lounged in one of the desks towards the front, reading the book. Careful not to look too eager, Sansa sits in a desk diagonal to him. She gives it two minutes before “accidentally” letting her fluffy pink pen fall to the floor. She taps her fingers against her chin and waits. She _hopes._

And it’s like clockwork.

For the second time that day, Loras Tyrell is down on his knees before her, or more accurately, beside her. He hands her the pen, with a flashing dimple, and Sansa’s heart skips a beat.

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”

Sansa’s answering giggle is careful. Controlled. Light and airy. “Small world, I guess. Thank you.”

Loras’ smile grows wider. It is such a pretty smile. He looks around, checking if the teacher has arrived yet, before turning back to her. “I didn’t catch your name, earlier.”

“I didn’t give it to you.” She teases, before offering her hand. “Sansa.”

“Sansa.” Loras says the name like it intrigues him. He takes her hand. “I’m Loras.”

_I know,_ Sansa almost says, but catches herself just in time, because that would be beyond creepy. “Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

He kisses her hand, a bare brush of his lips on her knuckles. Her brain feels like a gummy pile of mush. Her smile at him is probably down right idiotic, but she can’t find it in herself to care.

Loras stands up, giving her legs a long look. She’s wearing stockings, the beige opaque kind, and she’s never been more thankful for her fashion sense. He winks. “Nice stems.”

It’s an effort, not to sound as enamored as she actually is. Like she doesn’t already want to drown in his eyes. She bites her lip.

“Thanks.”

***

“I want him.” Sansa declares at lunch later that day from the bleachers, watching Loras, Smalljon, Edric, and Sigorn go head to head on the field, kicking a ball back and forth.

Everyone is there: Margaery, Wylla, Ros, Meera, and the rest of the cheer team sitting with a dozen others. But Sansa, Alys, and Jeyne sit further apart from them, in an effort not to be overheard.

“He’s Margaery’s twin _brother_ .” Alys emphasizes. “It’s _suicide_.”

Loras lifts up his shirt to wipe at his brow on the field, showing a flash of lean, and muscled, tan stomach. Sansa hums.

“I’ll die a happy woman.”

Alys shakes her head, incredulous, while Jeyne snickers. She takes a bite of her sandwich, and tilts her head in thought. “It might be worth it. He is heavenly.”

Heavenly was right. More than right. He was perfect. Gentlemanly. He didn’t act like any high school boy Sansa had ever met, and he definitely didn’t act like he was related to Margaery. He was kind. Genuine. Chivalrous. He was everything Sansa had been asking for for so long.

She _should_ be able to have it, after all that happened.

“I _have_ to get him to ask me out before the Winter formal.”

The winter formal was the most popular dance of the year besides prom. Homecoming was usually held in the gym, so no one ever went, but Winter formal was held at a club. It was a big deal, and although it was okay to go solo, she’d still like to go with someone, as she had only ever went with Jeyne.

“It’s possible. That’s plenty of time.” Jeyne chimes in. “Almost four months.”

It was. She could woo Loras in no time. And it would give her time to coordinate their outfits, and make her dress. Or should she just buy one? Maybe that would be better—

“Sansa, aren’t you forgetting something?” Alys asks.

“What?”

“You already _have_ a boyfriend.”

Sansa frowns. “Who?”

“ _Jon_.” Alys laughs.

“Oh.”

Jon. She had forgotten about Jon. Until now, he had been pushed to the back of her mind, along with all memory of last night and the kiss, but now it was front and center all over again. Sansa waves her hand in the air, as if to dismiss it all from her brain again, because it was the last thing she needed to think about right now. Loras was in the middle of some fancy scissor kick. “That isn’t real.”

“Everybody else thinks it is, though.” Jeyne reminds her

And then it’s perfect,

It’s _really_ fucking perfect.

“That’s perfect!” Sansa says aloud.

“What?” Jeyne and Alys ask in unison, looking equally confused.

“Loras should _see_ that I have a boyfriend.” Sansa states. “He needs to know that I’m desired. It’ll make him want me even more—I read something about it in cosmo.”

“Huh. You know, I think I read that too.” Jeyne says, like it’s not too bad of an idea, while Alys just sits there, gaping at them both like they’ve lost their heads.

“Marge still isn’t gonna be too happy about you macking on her brother when you have a _boyfriend_.” Alys says lowly.

“I’ll spread the word that we’ve broken up long before it gets to that point, _Duh._ ” Sansa rolls her eyes. “Don’t you guys see? It’s perfect!”

“A little.” Jeyne smirks.

They lean into each other, laughing and squealing excitedly, while Alys just blinks at them. Like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. Like her patience is wearing pretty thin. But the small smile on her lips betrays her.

“You two are insane.”

“That’s exactly what they said about Isaac Newton.” Jeyne says, flipping her hair.

Alys gapes. “You did _not_ just compare your faulty hookup plan to the invention of gravitational theory.”

“I _honestly_ do not see the difference.”

Sansa bursts into uncontrollable giggles, trying to stifle them with her hand, while Alys tries in vain not to do the same. At that moment, Loras passes by, kicking the ball. He looks up in their direction, and at the sight of Sansa, waves. Butterflies swarm her stomach, and she waves back.

_(This is so going to be worth it.)_

_***_

“So that’s what you moved here for? Soccer?” Smalljon asks Loras.

They’re all the same table Sansa had been at yesterday, while waiting to be picked up. The girls are getting ready for cheer practice, but the boys join them too, to get ready for soccer practice, and to look at the girls, obviously.

“Way better programs up here than Highgarden, and way more competitive.” Loras answers.

“It’s true.” Sansa hears herself say. When everyone turns to look at her, she blushes but doesn’t back down. “Robb’s top picks for scholarships were between White Harbor and Trident U.”

“Robb?” Loras asks.

“Her older brother.” Margaery offers up. “Our star player here before he graduated. Downright godly in everyone’s eyes.”

She raises her eyebrows slightly to show just what she thinks about that assessment, and Sansa doesn’t really like the implication. But before she can consider asking what she meant, Loras lets out a low whistle and looks at her again.

“Think I can beat his records?”

Sansa knew next to nothing about sports, and knew even less about soccer. But she did know Robb was pretty good. So she just shrugs coyly. “Haven’t seen you play.”

“You will.” Loras promises. “I’ll save you a seat our first game.”

Jeyne has to pinch Sansa on the leg to keep her from sighing dreamily in front of everyone, and Alys is shaking her head at their antics. But her face contorts into an expression of curiosity when she catches something over shoulder. She nudges Sansa, and jabs a thumb in that direction.

“Check that out.”

Sansa follows her line of vision to find Arya, already decked out in her practice clothes, arguing heatedly with someone. It appears to be very much one sided, because the person she’s arguing with—much too tall to be Ned Dayne, and much too muscular to be Anguy—looks to be grinning down at her in amusement. Sansa almost didn’t recognize him, because she’s _never_ seen him smile.

“That’s Gendry from physics.”

Gendry from physics receives a hefty push from Arya that barely seems to move him any. It only seems to make him laugh more heartily, but he raises his hands up defensively, backing up. Arya scowls and storms around the corner, while Gendry stares after her.

“Oh my god.” Jeyne says, torn halfway through disbelief and laughter.

“He likes her!” Sansa whispers excitedly, swatting at her friends.

While Gendry certainly wasn’t her type, and she didn’t know enough about Arya’s type to speak for her, they did seem like they’d be a good match on the surface. Both had major resting bitch face, which made them incredibly unapproachable. Both resented authority. And most importantly, they seemed interested in each other.

(Sansa couldn’t really tell with Arya, because she wanted to fight everyone, but that was neither here nor there. After she was done, they’d both be head over heels for each other. Arya would stop moping around and being a bitch, and their house would be the better for it.)

She turns to Alys and Jeyne. “Are you guys thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Sadly.” Jeyne heaves an absurdly long sigh, like she couldn’t be less interested in setting Arya and Gendry up, while Alys looks thrilled. She does a happy dance in her seat.

“This is gonna be _so_ much fun.”

Jeyne opens her mouth, probably arguing that it was about to be the exact opposite, when a loud car alarm chirps. There’s a crowd of people gathering around in front of something in the parking lot. There’s a hush of excited whispers.

“What’s going on?” Margaery asks curiously.

“Some big city dickweed with a nice car, probably.” Edric puts in, but he still doesn’t look away from the crowd. None of them do. Loras was momentarily shoved to the side as the shiny new toy in favor of whatever had just come through that parking lot. A voice carries though, loud enough for everyone at the table to here, considering they weren’t that far.

“—touch my car and I’ll rip your _fucking_ jaw off your skull and use it as a bracelet.”

Sansa furrows her eyebrows. “That actually sounds a lot like—”

Jeyne lets out a laugh. “He _didn’t._ ”

“Yeah.” Alys says, rolling her eyes. “He totally _did.”_

And he did.

Theon Greyjoy emerges from the crowd confidently, and sure enough they all spread out. Not a single person is near his car, which looks to be a sleek black convertible. Sansa does not blame them, not only was his threat without a doubt serious, but he looked intimidating as hell, towering tall and dressed in mostly all black. If she hadn’t known him, most of her life, as the dumbass who left a fork in the microwave once, she might actually be fooled. Instead, she just lets out an exasperated, somewhat fond sigh, because this was _classic_ Theon.

But she does notice how his smile becomes more genuine, more inexplicably _soft,_ when Jeyne jumps into his arms.

(Sansa doesn’t really care to admit it, but it’s adorable.)

They start kissing, and Edric lets out a loud whistle. Everyone laughs, but that doesn’t stop them. Theon just flips them off, and has obviously not had nearly enough of Jeyne because he keeps _going_ and _going,_ and Gods, Sansa realizes this is how she must have looked yesterday in the car—two seconds away from soft porn.

“Get a room, already.” Ros scoffs.

That is when they finally pull apart. Theon looks up to meet Ros’ eyes, lips already stretched back up into that irritating grin. “You offering up yours?”

Everyone laughs, and Ros flushes a splotchy red. Sansa wasn’t sure of the story there, but she did know that Ros and Theon has a notorious on and off thing a while back. Jeyne never gave her the time a day, despite them sitting at the same table everyday, and made it a point to ignore everything and anything she said, but at that moment, Theon looked like he couldn’t care less about her.

“Wait, aren’t you like, the lead singer of that band?” Loras asks, in awe. Sansa had forgotten that this was his first year at Queenscrown, so he wouldn’t have known that Theon went here once upon a time. “The one who went on tour with the Golden Company? Ironborn?”

“Need an autograph?” Theon teases.

His eyes widen. “That’d actually be really coo—"

“Loras.” Margaery snaps. He stops speaking instantly, and Sansa and Alys have to hide their laughs in a hacking cough.

That draws Theon’s attention. “Sans? Is that you?”

Sansa raises an awkward hand. “Hello.”

“Wow, long time no see.” He grins, and nods at Alys too. “Al. Sig.”

“Still not my name.” Sigorn grumbles.

“Whatever you say, buddy.” Theon shoots finger guns at him. He loops an arm around Jeyne’s shoulders. “Ready to go?”

“Sure.” Jeyne beams. She looks back at Sansa. “You want a ride home?”

Anything beat waiting around here any longer for Osha. Especially alone. Alys would be at cheer practice soon, and since Arya had soccer practice today, Osha wouldn’t becoming until three. Sansa shrugs. “Um…if it’s not too much trouble?”

“Babe?” Jeyne prompts Theon, who gives an exaggerated eye roll.

“Woman, I’ve been here for two minutes and you’re already bossing me around.”

Jeyne glares at him, and Theon laughs, kissing her on her forehead. He beckons Sansa. “I’m joking. Starks are always welcome in the love mobile.”

“Love mobile?” Sansa raises her eyebrows, rushing forward to catch up with them.

Surprisingly enough, Jeyne looks somewhat _embarrassed._ She mutters, “Don’t ask.”

They bid Alys goodbye, and Theon unlocks the car door. It’s even prettier up close, and obviously a classic. Like the type her Uncle Brandon fawned over. She inspects the leather seats in the back first, searching for stains of any kind. While Sansa doesn’t find anything, the phrase love mobile echoes through her mind, and she spreads her scarf out on the seat, before settling in and buckling her seatbelt.

Before Theon can pull out, Arya of all people, rushes forward to the car. Her nose scrunches when she sees Theon and Jeyne, but she ignores them completely, approaching Sansa.

“Where are you going?”

Sansa wants to ask her about Gendry very badly, but she knows that the minute she does, she would be the first suspect on the list when they started going through with the plan. So she says, “Theon’s taking me home. Don’t worry, I’ll text Osha.”

“Hey squirt!” Theon calls out, waving at Arya.

She flips him off. “Fuck off, squid for brains.”

“Missed you too!” Theon laughs.

“They’re insufferable together.” Arya says. “You sure you wanna torture yourself like that?”  


Sansa turns to find Theon and Jeyne making out in the front seat, again, and while she’s disturbed, it’s only a 15 minute car ride. She’d survive. Hopefully.

“I’ll be fine.” Sansa reassures her. “See you at home.”

Arya doesn’t look like she agrees, but she just shakes her head. “Whatever. See you at home.”

***

Theon is nearly _flying_ down the road, and Sansa is in the back, gripping the back of Jeyne’s seat, scared for her life.

She briefly recalls Bran reacting the same when she took him along on a trip to the grocery store for Nan. Did she really drive like this? She hoped not.

Jeyne seems used to it though. She doesn’t even think to put on her seatbelt until they hit a red light, which frankly, Sansa is surprised he stopped for.

“Why didn’t you tell me you got in early?” Jeyne asks Theon, punching him in the shoulder. She doesn’t actually look upset, perhaps she’s just happy that he’s here. “Me and Dad were gonna go pick you up together.”

“I can’t make out with you in front of your Dad.” Theon says.

“Good.” Jeyne says sternly, as if she wasn’t just talking about how she was gonna seduce him to Sansa this morning. “It was _supposed_ to be a chance for you to bond with him.”

Vayon Poole was very protective of his youngest daughter, and had the highest hopes for her. They were super close, closer than Sansa had ever seen anyone with their parents. (It had always made her a bit jealous, honestly.) He was always going on about Jeyne attending the best universities and becoming the greatest mathematician in the universe. According to Jeyne, it had come as a very nasty shock to him when he discovered his baby girl was dating “one of those Greyjoy boys.” Not only was Theon at a disadvantage because of the reputation his name gave him, but he was also deadset on not going to college and putting all his faith in Ironborn. While it had worked, and he was on his way to becoming a major commercial success, he still would never be good enough in Vayon Poole’s eyes. But that didn’t stop Jeyne from trying.

“I’ll have plenty of time to do that at dinner.” Theon says the word dinner the way normal people would say cruel and unusual punishment.

“Dinner?” Sansa can’t help but ask.

“It’s gonna be just as torturous as it sounds.” Theon drawls, miming a gun to his head. Jeyne swats at him.

(What Sansa wouldn’t do to be a fly on the wall of the Poole’s dining room tonight.)

“How’s everyone, Sans?” Theon meets her eyes in the mirror. “I talk to Robb all the time, but what about everyone else?”

Sansa shrugs. There really wasn’t all that much to say. “Dad’s fine. Arya’s still a brat. Rickon does wrestling now. Bran is in love with Meera Reed. Nothing too life altering.”

Theon snaps his fingers. The car lurches violently as the light turns green. Sansa is nearly choked out by her seatbelt.

“Ya know, _that’s_ what I wanna ask you about!” Theon slaps the steering wheel. “Jon! What the fuck was that? Like, seriously?”

From the way Jeyne coughs pointedly, Sansa can tell that Theon has no clue that Jon is back in town yet. Although everyone was gonna know soon enough, she couldn’t trust that Theon could keep the secret, not even for two more days. “Robb didn’t tell you?”

“The exact opposite!” Theon swears. “He was all, _‘I don’t think Jon would want me telling you, Theon.’_ _‘You’re not very good at keeping secrets, Theon.’ I’m an asshole, Theon.’”_

“I mean, I know just as much as you do.” Sansa lies, feigning a shrug. “He’s a prince. It got revealed at the worst possible time. That’s all I know.”

“Oh.” Theon was clearly disappointed that she didn’t turn out to be the well of information he thought she was originally. “I feel like I should have predicted this, though.”

“How on earth could you have done that?” Jeyne asks, amused.

“It was pretty obvious looking back, honestly.” Theon smirks. “The stick up his ass should have been a big enough clue for me.”

Jeyne cackles, but Sansa finds herself frowning. While at the beginning of the week, she would have agreed, now, all she can think about is how he helped her with the car, and how he helped her last night, and—

“He’s not so bad.”

“Whatever you say.” Theon snorts.

Jeyne catches her eye in the mirror, looking at her with something that feels a lot like suspicion, but Sansa does her best to avert her eyes. Eventually her friend sighs, and moves on.

“So what’s the plan?”

“For?”

“Arya and that scary looking dude from your physics class.” Jeyne elaborates. “What are we gonna do?”

Sansa perks up. “Does that mean you’re in?”

“It _means_ I don’t have a choice.” Jeyne huffs. “You and Alys would be completely lost without me.”

Sansa didn’t completely disagree with that. While she came up with the plans, and Alys pointed out all of the logical faults, Jeyne was usually the one that kept them from backing out.

“I’m not sure yet but…” Sansa taps her chin. “I’m thinking love notes. The secret admirer kind.”

“And you _really_ think she’d fall for that?” Jeyne says, not completely sold herself.

“ _Everyone_ does!”

While Arya always prided herself on being a tomboy, and edgy and the complete opposite of the typical girl, Sansa also knew that she was prone to liking girly things too. When Sansa spent her Sundays watching the Prince of Dragonflies, the TV adaptation for the story of Jenny of Oldstones and Prince Duncan, Arya somehow always found her way to the living room to “do homework where the light is better.” When Sansa was resting out new nail colors and used Arya’s hand, she complained the whole time, but always kept the nail polish on afterwards. Whenever Micah took her on those weird excursions he called dates, Arya always brought back a type of flower with her and put in a shoebox at the top of her closet. Arya could occasionally be a girly girl and _romantic,_ but whether she’d admit or not was a different story.

“Wait, What?” Theon cuts in, lost in the conversation.

“Arya’s showing interest in a guy—” Sansa begins.

“—As much as Arya can even do such a thing.” Jeyne interrupts sardonically. But at Sansa’s glare she relents and says, “We’re just giving her that little push she needs to go for it.”

“So you’re trying to set them up?” Theon says.

“Basically.” Sansa nods.

“You two bonkers.” Theon barks out a laugh. “You _know_ she’s gonna kill you guys if she finds out?”

Theon Greyjoy was warning her against doing something crazy.

_(What has the world come to?)_

Although a little perturbed, Sansa says, “it’ll all be worth it.”

(Hopefully.)

( _Hopefully.)_

***

It was the second to last day of August, a little too warm for his liking, but still carrying a soft breeze, when Jon is finally set free.

Except it didn’t really feel like it. He was leaving the Stark house, _again,_ and as much as being stuck inside of it with nothing else to do made him antsy, he liked being with them all again. He knew he’d be back, since Ned worked from home almost as much as he worked from the office, but he wouldn’t be waking up with them, going swimming with them. Fighting over the TV remote. If him staying there wasn’t such a security risk to everyone, Jon would have dug in his heels and tried to convince his father to let him stay.

“This is ridiculous.” Bran repeats for the umpteenth time. “We should be able to visit you. It’s not like we told anyone where you were this whole time.”

“The King is ridiculous.” Jon says. It annoyed him too, that none of them would be able to come visit, since Uncle Aemon’s place was supposed to be an illustrious Targaryen family secret. Whatever. “I can still come see you guys, though. And I will.”

“You better.” Arya commands. There’s grass in her hair, and she’s still in her muddy soccer jersey when she hugs him. Jon does not care. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

“We should get going, your Grace.” Bronn says. “It’s going to be dark soon. And Mr. Stark would like us to call him as soon as we leave, and arrive.”

Ned was stuck at work, and he chose Bronn to drive him to Uncle Aemon’s mansion, with Jory tailing behind, and Jon couldn’t be more thankful. The not so secretive judgemental looks the younger bodyguard kept shooting his way quickly made Bronn his favorite.

“Yeah, sure.” Jon says. “I just have to find Rickon, and then we can go.”

Finding Rickon does not take that long, anyway. He’s on his bed, all bruised up and bloody. If Jon had to guess, it looked like he had just gotten into a fight with a wild animal. He raises his fist to knock on the door, which is cracked, when there’s a flash of red, and Sansa of all people comes into view.

He watches, just a little.

Jon hadn’t seen her, not since last night, and she had completely dipped in the morning after asking Osha go take her and Arya to school, and he doesn’t know _why,_ considering they had parted ways just fine, but at the same time he thinks he should.

Her hair is in a ponytail, a rare sight, and she’s tilting Rickon’s face back, dabbing at his face here and there with a cotton ball, and wincing sympathetically at his small whimpers of pain.

“This is what happens when you go running off to places you don’t have any business.” Sansa admonishes, unwrapping a mini bandaid. “You could have broke something, Rickon.”

“But I didn’t!” Rickon protests. Still, he flinches when she sticks the band aid on his chin. “I was just exploring a little. I didn’t know that I’d fall.”

“No more exploring the woods, not even a _little_.” Sansa says sternly, but drops all of the first aid supplies back into the kit and softens. She runs a hand through his hair, tilting his head to inspect him further. “Where was Osha during all of this? Gods, what do we even pay her for?”

“It’s not her fault! I was waiting for her to come pick me up.” Rickon says, and then ducks his head. “I ripped one of the new pairs of jeans you got me for school, and she needed thread to fix them.”

“The _new_ pair?” Sansa almost shouts. Her hands are on her hips in an instant. “Rickon, school has been in session for _two days!”_

“I know, I wasn’t paying attention! But there was this tree, and me and Lyanna—”

“Lyanna Mormont doesn’t have to take you to the mall every time you ruin another pair of jeans!” Sansa says firmly. “You _cannot_ keep going through jeans this fast. You’re going to burn a hole through Daddy’s pocket!”

Rickon cringes, and Jon feels so bad for him that he knocks, if not to give him a little reprieve. “Hey.”

“Hey Jon.” Rickon says glumly, scuffing his sneakers up against the hardwood floor.

“Hi.” Sansa says quietly. _Briskly._ She looks at him for about two seconds, and her cheeks look kind of pink. But Jon knows he’s imagined it, because it’s gone in seconds, and so is she, along with the first aid kit.

But that’s not what he’s there for, so he doesn’t dwell on it, and sits next to Rickon on the bed instead. “Rough day?”

“A little.” Rickon says. “Me and my friends were playing hide and seek in the woods after school. I fell down a hill.”

Jon grimaces. “Ouch.”

“Yeah, _Ouch._ And now Sansa’s mad at me.”

“She’s not.” Jon reassures him. “She’s just worried. You’re the baby of the family. She worries about you the most.”

“I know.” Rickon sighs. “I don’t mean to not listen all the time...I just forget. Honest. It’s like it all flies out of my head.”

He always had trouble paying attention, and listening, and even when Rickon was trying his best that didn’t always translate to others because it wasn’t that much of an improvement. Osha was the most recent addition made to control that.

(According to Arya, she had been hired after Sansa left for King’s Landing, in an effort to fill that gap for Rickon. Apparently, it took him awhile to adjust, because he was so upset at Sansa for leaving. And why wouldn’t he be? Sansa had always taken care of _everything_ for him. Kissing all of his aches and bruises. Helping him pick out his clothes in the morning. Making sure he brushed his teeth.

Rickon always tried his best to listen to Sansa. More than anyone else.)

“I know.” Jon says. “All you can do is try to do better,”

“I guess.” Rickon says. He leans on his shoulder. “Do you really have to leave right now?”

“Yes. A few minutes ago, actually.” Jon grins wryly. “I’ll be over here all the time. Pretty soon you’ll be begging me to leave.”

“Never.” Rickon says stubbornly, hugging him so tightly it nearly takes his breath away. “Who else’s ass am I gonna kick in Call of Duty?”

“Point taken.”Jon laughs, ruffling his hair super hard until it stands up. Rickon squirms, nose crinkling. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Soon.” Rickon corrects pointedly, trying to flatten his hair back down.

“Soon.” Jon agrees.

***

Jon slips out of Rickon’s room and stumbles right into Sansa, who looks like she was about to come back in. He catches her around the elbows before she can fall.

“Sorry.” Sansa apologizes, stepping out of his reach once his steadying hand is no longer necessary. “I was just coming—Bronn’s getting a little impatient.”

“Yeah.” Jon swallows. “He does that.”

He wishes that Bronn would come over here now. He desperately wants to be somewhere, anywhere other than this conversation.

She nods, fumbling with her necklace— _his_ necklace. She checks down the hallway both ways before speaking, as if to make sure that no one was truly coming down the hallway. She steps forward, and for one stupid, heart halting moment, Jon thinks she’s gonna kiss him again.

(She doesn’t.)

“I’ve tried to tell them that this isn’t a big deal, but they don’t believe me. You’re still gonna be here. Nothing’s gonna change.”

(She says it like a statement of fact, but Jon’s almost certain it’s a question.

Because she’s biting her lip, and fumbling with her necklace—his necklace, and her eyes don’t really look as sure as her voice sounds, and—

There’s a good chance that Sansa Stark is going to _miss_ him.

Jon doesn’t really know how to feel about that.)

“Yeah, definitely.” He clears his throat, ignoring the twinge in his gut. “I’ll be around.”

Something flits across Sansa’s face—relief. Jon doesn’t really know if it really is, or if that’s just wishful thinking, and most of all, he doesn’t know why that’s something he would wish for.

She composes herself too quickly, stepping backward and crossing her arms over her chest. “Duh. It’s them you need to tell that, not me.”

Jon’s grin is uncontrollable, and as much as he tries to hide it, tries to stifle it, he can’t. “Right.”

Sansa glares at him, and Jon isn’t ashamed to admit that it makes him a little light headed. She opens her mouth to speak, probably to release some scathing, ego bruising remark, but then _Jory,_ of all people comes into the fucking hall.

He does not look impressed by what he sees.

“Your Grace.” Jory intones. “Your Uncle is expecting us at the manor before dark. If we want to make good time, I’d suggest we leave now.”

_(_ What he means:

_Stop being a fucking skeeze and get in the car. You’re really not making this any easier for me_.)

Jon cringes. “Yeah, uh...coming.”

Jory does not move.

( _Does he really think I’m gonna defile her in the middle of the fucking hall?_ )

“Guess you better get a move on.” Sansa says, pushing a loose strand of red behind her ear.

“Yep.” Jon grits out, all too aware of Jory’s laser like focus on the back of his head and his neck feels _really_ fucking hot—

Sansa hugs him.

It’s quick, fleeting, and Jon barely has time to grab her around the waist and hug her back, because she’s already back where she was, leaving him to doubt whether it really happened. The scent of lavender and strawberries that lingers tells him otherwise.

“Thanks. For last night.” She says. “You didn’t have to, but...thanks.”

Jon’s mouth is a little dry, but he needs to answer. “It was..,” _Nothing. Everything._ “No problem,” he finishes, awkwardly. Lamely.

“Yeah well…” Sansa straightens her shoulders. In an instant, she’s back. That girl. The popular, haughty one who left the house every morning and probably had all sorts of boys eating out of the palm of her hands. “Thanks. I’ll see you around.”

She doesn’t look back when she gets to her room.

Jon’s left shocked, a little speechless, until Jory not so politely clears his throat, and he’s forced to come back to reality. He turns around to find Jory glaring at him, unabashedly too.

“What?”

“I’d prefer it if you did your physical activities somewhere else, Your Grace.” Jory bites out. “If you had told me, I could have arranged somewhere for you two to meet up. I don’t think it’s wise to continue doing it under Mr. Stark’s nose.”

“I’m not—” Jon blushes. Thinks of Sansa’s words to him. “ _Thanks for last night. You didn’t have to,”_ and his _“It was no problem”_ and Gods. It really did sound downright lecherous. “I haven’t touched her! Not like that! It’s not— _we’re_ not—”

He can practically see the moment the kiss from yesterday flashed in Jory’s mind. He coolly says, “No need to explain yourself to me. I’m just trying to make things a little easier.”

( _But you’re not. You’re really fucking not,_ Jon wants to shout at him.)

(He doesn’t.)

“Let’s just go.” Jon grumbles at last, not wanting to spend a second longer with him. “I’m ready.”

***

They don’t get there before dark.

Jon supposes that’s his fault.

It’s an almost two hour drive there, and once they get there, they’re greeted by what he presumed to be the staff of the house. The minute he approaches, they all bow stiffly, and it makes him feel terribly uncomfortable, and he beckons them to stand almost as they bend.

“Your Uncle Aemon is sorry to tell you that he won’t be able to meet you tonight, Your Grace.” A girl who can’t be that much older than him, informs him. She had introduced herself as Gilly, his in patient nurse. “He’s had a very exciting day preparing for your arrival, and was forced to retire early.”

“Oh.” No wonder he was supposed to be there earlier. Jon feels a bit guilty. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Nothing that rest can’t fix.” Gilly says. It all feels a little rehearsed, like a script they had all memorized beforehand. Jon wonders if that’s what happened. “Sam would be honored to show you to your rooms, so you can wash up for dinner.”

“Yes, of–of course.” A round guy, who again, only looked to be a few years older than him blushes beet red, and bows _again._ “Follow me, please. If—if you want, I mean.”

(If there was a script, this guy had obviously forgotten a few lines.)

To make things easier for the poor guy, Jon does follow him, up one of the grand staircases—it appeared there were three—and past a library, and a bunch of peculiar busts of what Jon assumed to be different Targaryen patriarchs, not necessarily kings. There were portraits of several golden-silvered hair hung up on the walls. Jon even sees one of his own family, several years back. But even back then, he can see much of their current personalities; Rain is holding a fluffy Bombay cat, smiling sweetly, and three year old Egg looks terribly bored and sullen. That, without a doubt, probably had something to do with Dany, almost a year younger, sitting in Elia’s lap, looking like she’s about to burst into tearsViserys attempts to look as austere and regal as Rhaegar, and it almost work, but Viserys’ features are still too pointed. Rhaegar, as melancholy as ever, has an arm draped over the shoulder of Elia, who looks impeccably poised. They both wear crowns, and look every bit the King and Queen of Westeros. If Jon had to guess, this had probably been commissioned at the very beginning of Rhaegar’s reign, when they had first taken custody of Dany and Viserys after King Aerys and Queen Rhaella’s death. Jon contemplates taking a picture, and sending it to them, but this house feels a lot like a museum, and he doesn’t think it would be allowed.

(Jon tries to close his eyes for a second, picture himself between Egg and Rain, but he just can’t.

He’s glad he never had to do that.)

The room Sam shows Jon to is huge, bigger than his room at the Stark house. It looked more like a drawing room with a bed and a closet in it than an actual bedroom. There’s a sitting area, and a desk, and his own bathroom. He could have probably fit an entire kitchen inside. It was honestly big enough to be a studio apartment. In fact, all of his things from his studio apartment in Barrowtown were there, all organized and put away. Down to his underwear.

( _Super fucking weird.)_

Sam leaves him with yet another awkward bow, and a squeaky goodbye, telling him that dinner would still be available downstairs if he changed his mind, which he wouldn’t. The two hour car ride had drained all of his people skills, and he didn’t feel like telling them all over and over again that no, they didn’t have to call him Your Grace, and Jon was just fine, and then repeat it when they mess up—

Jon was tired. Bone tired. But when his laptop starts chiming incessantly, noting an incoming FaceTime call after he had just plugged it in for school in the morning, Rhaenys’ name pops up on the screen, and as tired as he is, it would be nice to hear her voice.

“You answered!” Rhaenys beams into the camera.

Jon smiles, rubbing at his eyes. “I answer the phone every time you call.”

“I know.” Rhaenys says. “We just haven’t talked in awhile.”

Neither of that was necessarily either of their faults. Rhaegar had been inexplicably relying on her more heavily lately, and Jon didn’t want to bother her. Still, he felt bad—he knew how worried she would get if he didn’t call in awhile.

“How are things down there?”

“Boring.” Rhaenys groans. “Dany abandoned me for Astapor. Randa’s back at Casterly Rock, and being quarantined because she’s sick, so I can’t even go see her. Father has me hosting luncheon after luncheon. Arianne is going to Sunspear to do wedding related things–  


Jon snorts. “She’s finally getting married?”

“Hey! I heard that!” A voice calls from the background, and Arianne comes into view from behind Rhaenys, scowling.

“You didn’t tell me she was there!” Jon shouts.

Rhaenys giggles. “I didn’t say she left yet, either!”

“For your information, planning a wedding is hard work.” Arianne says. “It takes dedication. Time–"

“It must. It’s been two years already.” Another voice puts in. Rhaenys turns the camera, and Viserys is lounging on a chaise. When he realizes it’s on him, he snaps, “Get that out of my face.”

“Maybe I’m just postponing the wedding in hopes that Jaehaerys will change his mind and come sweep me off my feet.” Arianne bats her eyelashes at him. “What do you say, my love? Should we give it a try?”

Jon had long gotten used to Arianne’s flirting. It had taken a while at first, and even longer to understand how a soon to be married woman could talk like that, but Rhaenys had told him it was harmless, and that she was all bark and no bite. Willas Tyrell didn’t seem to mind it though, so Jon figured shouldn’t be one to judge and just went with it most of the time.

“So you could just postpone our wedding? No thanks.”

Arianne chuckles, while Rhaenys laughs almost to the point of hysterics. He hears a huff of laughter that must belong to Viserys come out too.

“What about you?” She asks at last, after the laughter had finally died down. “I heard you’re at Uncle Aemon’s now. What do you think so far?”

“It’s…” Jon searches for something to say that isn’t too far away from what he really wants to say. _Museum like. A Targaryen family vanity project._ “Quiet.”

“Isn’t it though?” Rhaenys says. “We all went there once years ago. Viserys kept trying to convince us it was haunted.”

“It _is_ haunted.” Viserys says slowly, like their morons.

“It’s been _years_ , you don’t have to pretend anymore.” Rhaenys frowns. “It was never funny.”

“I’m not _joking_.” Viserys snaps. “I’ve never joked about anything a day in my life. Why would I start now?”

_(That was an...unsettling good point.)_

“He has a point.” Arianne echoes his thoughts. “Don’t let monster under your bed get you tonight, Snow.” She wiggles her fingers for dramatic effect.

_(What the fuck have I gotten myself into?)_

If Jon had been under house arrest an entire week just to get killed on his first night out by a ghost, he was going to be _livid_.

“Don’t listen to them, Jon.” Rhaenys says confidently. “That’s not why I called you. I have news.”  


“News?” Jon says blankly, still contemplating whether or not to sleep with the door locked.

“Yes! There’s actually girl I want to introduce you to—”

“Rhaenys.” He interjects, that familiar coil of dread snaking its way through his stomach.

“I’ve let you mope around long enough!” She says, banging her fists on the desk enthusiastically. “It’s time to get back out there!”

“I was just out there! All summer! Or have you already forgotten?”

Jon definitely hadn’t. The long string of blind dates Rhaenys and Dany had forced him to go on were all awkward, torturous, and disastrous without fail. None of them knew he was a prince, and most looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. The few that were interested in him, he always ended messing it up because he didn’t know what to say, and the whole time he was comparing them to Ygritte—

Arianne lets out a loud laugh. Jon narrows his eyes at her.

“This is funny to you?”

She glows. “Hilarious.”

“She’s really cute.” Rhaenys says in a sing song voice. “Northern. That down to earth type you’re attracted to. She’s not so frilly like the others. You’ll _really_ like her, Jon. I promise.”

“I don’t want your promises.” Jon says frantically, desperately. “I _want_ be alone! What’s so hard to understand about that?”

“I want you to be happy and move on!” Rhaenys shouts back. “What’s so hard to understand about that?”

( _Everything_ ! He wants to tell her. _Literally everything because I have all but stamped it on my fucking forehead that I have moved on just fine.)_

“You’re just gonna have to put on your big boy pants.” Rhaenys lifts her chin. “Because I already set up a date for you guys.”

“A date?” Jon bleats.

“If you’d like to cancel that bad, you can call her and do it yourself.”

“I’m not the one who promised her the date!”

“You owe it to her.” Rhaenys says stonily. “And, once you call her you might find you actually like her and choose to go out with her on your own.”

Ridiculous.

That’s what this was.

_Ridiculous._

Jon can only open his mouth and shut it repeatedly, completely at a loss for words. Rhaenys has never been more serious, while Arianne and even Viserys are getting their sick kicks out of the whole thing, laughing it up.

“Why are we laughing? I’d like to laugh.”  


A door shuts in the background, and Jon recognizes Aegon’s blond head in the background, tugging at the tie around his neck. Jon sees his brother, his only hope, and latches on to it desperately.

“Egg! Tell Rain she’s being ridiculous.”

Egg hasn’t even raised his hand to wave at Jon through the screen before Rhaenys is arguing, “I am not!”

Egg, knowing their sister and having a much longer history with her, doesn’t buy it for a second. “Why are you being ridiculous?”

“She’s set Jon up on another blind date.” Arianne says, grinning.

“Another one!” Jon shouts. “Tell her I can’t go. Tell her _she_ has to cancel it.”

“No. _He_ does.” Rhaenys retorts. “If he wants to break the poor girl’s heart, he can do it himself. Or he can stop being a pansy, and go on the godsdamned date.”

Just as Jon is about to open his mouth to protest again, Egg speaks. “It’s not like he could go on it even if he wanted to, Rain. Our baby brother has been quite the busy man.”

“Busy?” Rhaenys looks back to glare at him accusingly. Jon holds up his hands in defense, because he seriously has no idea what the fuck Egg is talking about.

“He’s in between girls at the moment.” Egg says. “Or more accurately, one girl. They were tonguing each other just yesterday. He told me.”

Just as Jon’s about to come through the screen and lunge at him for telling her, because the whole reason he had even went to Egg in the first place was because he’d rather die of snake poisoning than tell Rain about Sansa, she squeals. Angrily.

Excitedly.

“You’re _dating_ again and you didn’t tell me?”

“Uh…”

And Jon has to think.

Lightning fast. Saying yes to this one question would get Rain off his back about this stupid blind date, and every other one that was bound to happen in the near future. Saying yes to this question would also make Sansa his fake girlfriend, which she was already, so it’s not like anything would alter too much. And she’d never find out anyway—he’d quickly find an _actual_ girlfriend before Rain started asking any more questions. No harm, no foul. And it wasn’t like she hadn’t done the same to him.

Saying no meant calling this girl. Saying no meant calling more girls in the near future because Rhaenys was like a dog with a bone when it came to his love life. Saying no meant not ever being left alone about it. Ever.

So Jon says: “Yes.”

More squealing. A lot of clapping. Rhaenys is glowing. “Who is she?” She asks in a rush. “How’d you guys meet? When did you guys meet? Is she pretty?”

“Uh…” his brain knew what he wanted to say, what he needed to say, but still, he couldn’t say it.

“It’s the Stark girl.” Egg says. Jon has never been more thankful for his inability to shut up. “The one he bought the necklace for.”

“I’m going to kill you.” Rhaenys says. “I _knew_ there was something going on there. I knew it. Didn’t I say so?”

“Multiple times.” Arianne mutters. “Too many times.”

“Why didn’t you just tell us?” Rhaenys says, pouting.

“I…” _Good question._ “....We wanted to keep it quiet.”

“We wouldn’t have told anyone.” Arianne says.

“I know. It’s just…we’re still a new relationship, so.”

It was a lame excuse, but it seemed to work for the girls just fine. They coo in unison, and Jon thinks if he was there with him, they’d tackle him in a hug.

“Jon…that’s wonderful.” Rhaenys sighs contentedly. “I wish you would have told me, though. Now I have to call and cancel on this poor girl.”

“Yes. Yes you do.” Jon says, maybe a little too fast and eager to be less obvious. “Sorry about that.”

“We want pictures.” Arianne points at him. “Dany’s gonna freak.”

“And you should invite her to your coronation!” Rain’s eyes widen, and she bounces up and down. “Then we could meet her!”

_Shit._

“Yeah.” Jon says weakly. “Maybe.”

It takes an additional hour to get off the phone with them, and after that, Egg is still blowing up his phone, demanding a play by play of how he asked Sansa out and where on earth he had found the balls to do so. Jon answers none of them, collapsing against the bed and rubbing at his eyes until he sees stars. Who knew how long it’d be until his father found out about his girlfriend? He hoped that wouldn’t happen. Because if Rhaegar found, Ned would find out, and the rest of the Starks, and most importantly, the girlfriend in question. Jon needed to get a grip on this problem, and fast.

_(Gods, I am so screwed.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeyne and Theon as Dionne and Murray make my heart go WOOSH!!!
> 
> Favorite scenes/lines/characters? Predictions? I wanna hear them all. Drop a comment below! If it’s something you want me to see sooner rather than later, you can talk to me @jeynesgreyjoy on tumblr as well. Thanks for reading!


	8. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I wasn’t in a good mood, and I knew that would affect the way I wrote this chapter, so I took a break. Despite all of that, here it is. But first, 3 things!
> 
> 1\. This chapter is very clueless reference heavy, and is setting the stage for a lot of what’s to come.  
> 2\. This chapter was originally supposed to be a combo POV but I’ve decided that I’d rather get my liver pecked away by eagles every night than write another one. That’s why the end of this chapter is a little open ended. Since this is virtually my last day of break, there’s going to be a longer wait between updates, because I’ll be busy. I’m still gonna try to get ch. 9 out by next Friday at the latest. It’s a VERY jonsa heavy chapter, so I hope that’ll make up for the delay.  
> 3\. I hope to start making Friday my update day (that doesn’t mean every Friday) Now that I know I can crank out chapters a lot faster, I hope that means it’ll be easier to update regularly.  
> Enjoy this chapter!!!

**Sansa**

Sansa’s first week back at school is supposed to be her reintroduction to society.

It’s supposed to be _perfect_.

She’s supposed to join some clubs and make at least two new friends in every class. She’s supposed to be only spotted wearing the latest fashion, and not even a wrinkle in the crop top she just so happened to wear that day. She’s supposed to get in good with all her teachers, pulling the “I’m Robb’s little sister” card _just_ a little in order to combat the “I’m Arya’s big sister” strike she already had against her. She’s also supposed to be chatting up Loras, which was a recent addition to her plan.

And that is exactly what happens.

Sansa joins yearbook because it gives her something to do while waiting for Arya to get out of sixth on the days she didn’t have practice, and Jeyne to get out of Mathletes. Key club was a must, because she still didn’t have enough volunteer hours to graduate as in King’s Landing the requirement had been much lower. Most of her classes she already had friends in, so there wasn’t much to be done about that, but Sansa still rotates seats every lunch period so she gets a chance to talk to everyone, even those with unfamiliar faces. She had gotten many compliments on her outfits so far, most notably from Margaery, maybe in an effort to make up for the hostility she originally showed her. Her teachers all really seemed to like her, especially Ms. Mordane, who had given Arya four Saturday detentions in a row last year, according to Jeyne. Sansa spends every period in Psychology making conversation with Loras, who also seems fascinated with her outfit choices and has taken to calling her Duchess because of it—she blushes without fail every time.

It’s almost as if she never left, and despite the initial boyfriend situation hiccup, it all went great.

But if Sansa’s first week back in school is her reintroduction into society, than her second one is Jon’s.

It’s complete madness. _Immediately._

She doesn’t even get a grace period. The day after he leaves, She’s sitting in third period, literally the _worst_ place she could be, with Margaery and Smalljon, when she hears a phone go off. Mr. Harwin looks mildly affronted, but not as affronted as he does when another chime sounds out. And then another. Until everyone’s phone is going off and they don’t really have any choice but to check it, and Mr. Harwin doesn’t really have any choice but to let them, because what is he gonna do? Take away their phones ten minutes before class ends when they’re doing busy work anyway? With a funny feeling in her stomach, Sansa unlocks her phone.

**_The Westerosi_ ** _: Jon Snow, King Rhaegar’s bastard, pops up in Wintertown after mysterious week long absence from the public._

**_Baelish Independent:_ ** _King Rhaegar’s bastard spotted in his childhood home of Wintertown._

**_Northern Tribune_ ** _: He’s just like us! Jon Snow, bastard prince, starts his first day at White Harbor University._

_(Did they really have to use bastard that many times?)_

It takes seconds for everyone’s eyes to find her in the room.

“You didn’t tell us he was coming back!” Smalljon says, a little accusingly, all eyes wide.

“He just arrived last night.” Sansa recites the lie she had been practicing since she first learned about the plan for Jon’s secret arrival. “And I just found out early this morning. I figured you guys would find out soon enough.”

“Hm.”

That comes from Margaery, and because Sansa knows it would be very telling to look anywhere but in her eyes, she doesn’t. She wishes she hadn’t, though. There is something in them, something calculating and more than politely curious.

“I don’t blame you.” Margaery says with a forgiving smile. “You only just found out. And you guys were never that close anyway. It’s no wonder you don’t know anymore than us.”

That stings.

Just a little.

Because Smalljon nods like he agrees, and it’s kind of annoying, how everyone assumes that they know what her relationship is with Jon due to what they knew of it before they left. Sansa was always reminding them that Jon was her godbrother and not her actual brother, which was mostly thanks to Robb and Jon being as thick as thieves, and Jon was always rolling his eyes and firing back with, “Like I want to be voluntarily associated with you anyway,” and yes, it had been a lot of bickering and pointedly ignoring each other but—

It wasn’t really like that anymore.

The snide remarks and dripping sarcasm was all still there, would probably never leave, but it had softened a little. And maybe that had something to do with their time apart, and what had happened to her and what had happened to him—and maybe _that_ had something to do with the necklace, and how he had held her, both the day of the accident and just a few nights ago when she had to tell him about Joffrey, but they were a little different now. As individuals. _Together._

But Sansa couldn’t tell them that. And even if she could, she didn’t want to.

(She shouldn’t have to explain her relationship to Jon with anyone.)

(Nor would she even know how to begin.)

Nobody really asks her about Jon for the rest of the week, not even at the lunch table—Margaery must have gave them Sansa’s scoop already, or lack thereof, because they all go to Arya. She tells them all to fuck off. That’s when the student body takes to speculating the question themselves: Why is Jon here instead of King’s Landing, after all this time?

_“Was that the ultimatum the Queen gave the King: his wife or his son?”_

Most of the gossip fell around that theory. Sansa didn’t know anything about Jon’s relationship with Elia Martell, but she did know that the Queen had done no such thing, and that King Rhaegar wasn’t too keen on the plan for Ned coming home in the first place. From what she had gathered, it had taken a lot of convincing for it to happen.

One of the more outlandish one she was hearing by the Wednesday was the theory that maybe Jon wasn’t even Rhaegar’s son at all, and that all the drama was for nothing, and that was why he came home. But it was soon discounted by the majority, because the royal family would have released a statement already along those lines, and someone walking around with two bodyguards following his every move couldn’t be anything less than a very important person.

That was a little wild, but the theory Sansa overhears Ros telling Meera in the halls on Thursday really takes the cake.

“What if the Queen sent him away because he was causing more than one scandal?” Ros raises her eyebrows. “You guys see how close he seemed in those pictures with Arianne Martell. They’ve been spotted together a bunch.”

Sansa freezes behind the locker door covering her face.

_(Pictures?)_

(She has only ever seen one, and Princess Rhaenys had been in it too.)

_(Jon did say him and Arianne were good friends.)_

“As if.” Meera says, and Sansa is glad that the idea sounds just as preposterous to her. “She’s engaged to Margaery’s older brother.”

They had been engaged for a long time, about six years, from what Sansa could recall. It had always struck her as a bit picture perfect, the way the son of the at the time future Warden of the South just so happened to propose to the daughter of the Ruling Prince of Dorne. It wouldn’t surprise her a bit if it was just a scheme to garner votes for Mace Tyrell’s election campaign.

“Duh.” Ros says. “That’s the scandal part!”

Meera just snorts, and Sansa hears them walk in the other direction.

It’s completely stupid, and she doesn’t believe it for a second.

(Even still, later that night, in the privacy of her own room, Sansa types their name into the search bar and presses go before she can change her mind.

What she finds—

She doesn’t care for how it could be interpreted.

Not that she cares. At all.

It’s just–there’s quite a few pictures.

There’s the one she had seen of them originally, with Princess Rhaenys standing on his left while Arianne stands on his left. She’s laughing. Entirely too hard to be believable. Like Sansa had said before, Jon is rarely such a comedian, unless it’s at her expense. And she’s not anywhere that picture, that was for sure.

There’s another picture of them. At Queen Elia’s birthday celebration. She looks gorgeous, of course, in a red sheath dress that accentuated her curves, long dark hair falling down her shoulders. This wasn’t a candid picture either, but more of a formal one, taken outside the steps of the red keep in front of the paparazzi. All of the Martells but the Queen stand there, even Prince Doran, who rarely left his country. He was alone, but Prince Oberyn was accompanied by his girlfriend, Ellaria, and Arianne had obviously chosen Jon as her date in lieu of Willas. Sansa didn’t really care to say so, but they did look good together. Jon stood lean and handsome, a bit less rugged than usual with his hair tied back. He was expressionless too, which for him always meant nervous. His hand was around Princess Arianne’s waist and her hand was on his chest and she was smiling coyly, _seductively_ at the camera. As if she had a secret she just wasn’t ready to tell everyone yet.

The last one is the one that really makes Sansa’s skin itch for some reason. It’s another candid. Princess Arianne’s hand is wrapped around his bicep, as she teeters out in heels almost as tall as her of what looks like the Castamere Tennis Match, one of the most exclusive summer events of the year. She’s beautiful as always, dressed in a peach wrap dress with a floppy sun hat to match, and Jon actually appears to be smirking down at her, and it wasn’t the one he gave Sansa, but she can’t find it in herself to be objective enough to say if that’s because this smirk clearly means something while hers meant nothing, or vice versa, and—

Sansa locks her phone, attaches it to the charger, and fluffs up her pillow to flop back into it a little more violently than necessary.

She does not sleep much that night.)

The following day, Arya puts a stop to all of these rumors by proclaiming that she’d kick anyone’s ass who uttered another bad thing about Jon, in the middle of the quad, standing on one of the tables to gather everyone’s attention. Her voice is shrill, cold, and a little scary, and it _works,_ because Sansa doesn’t hear anything else, at least not when she’s around. Arya had earned a reputation last year, after she apparently kicked a testicle of some kid named Lommy.

(She didn’t doubt that was true.)

Even if Arya had acquired complete radio silence on Jon through means of mass intimidation, Sansa was relieved that she finally didn’t have to hear about him all the time, at least at school.

Jon hasn’t even been at the house much, like he said he would. In fact, Sansa hasn’t seen him around once. Maybe it’s because he’s still settling into his new place and new routine, but she knows he’s okay. Rickon and Bran talk to him almost every night, and Arya was always bringing him up like he never left, and when Sansa asked Ned about his day, he’d always drop Jon’s name in somehow with “Jon helped me do this” or “I have to remember to tell Jon” or “Gotta go, Jon’s calling” and it’s all really—

Overwhelming.

Because he’s everywhere—in the media, at school, and at home, but then he isn’t at the same time, because every night she goes to the bathroom to ready for the bed, he’s not there to tease her. He had only been here a week, but he had settled back in like he never left, and returned to his annoyingly snug place under her skin, but it was much worse this time, _way_ worse this time.

Sansa was _glad_ he was gone. If only from one place. Maybe she’d finally get some peace of fucking mind.

Finally.

***

On Monday, Sansa finds herself standing at the door of her physics class, 60% sure she’s about to make conversation with a juvenile delinquent.

70%.

89.3?

The longer she stares at Gendry Waters, hunched over his desk in the corner of the classroom, the number steadily rises. Why did he have to be so mean looking? Like yeah, he was cute, but that was only if you got over the defiant slant of his brow, and the offensive cross of his arms over his chest, and his overall “I could break you in half” demeanor.

It’s funny, because over the weekend, her, Jeyne, and Alys had all been debating on how best to approach Operation Gendrya (Alys had came up with the name, much to the dismay of Jeyne, who proclaimed that it sounded like a venereal disease) and they all had agreed that the person to go to first was Gendry. They just didn’t know _how._ Sure, they had the same fifth period, but they sat miles apart and it wasn’t like she could just go up to him with nothing to talk about.

Well, it seemed Mr. Wolkan had heard her prayers.

After days of promising that he’d eventually make a seating chart, he actually _did_ it. Alys wasn’t sat anywhere near her, all the way at the left far side of the room in the front row, while Sansa was sat in the far right corner to the back.

Right next to Gendry.

It was her chance, and the biggest break they’ve had in the scheme so far, and by the look Alys is pointedly giving her, Sansa knows she’s thinking it as well. But Gentry’s uninviting posture really made her want to chicken out.

She almost does. Not because she was scared, but because as social as she was, she could think of anything her and Gendry would have to talk about. Just as she’s about to lose hope, she watches him open his binder, and catches sight of a large sticker on the front: _Sand Snakes, live from Flea Bottom_.

Frankly, the luck Sansa has sometimes, it amazes every herself.

“So, you like the Sand Snakes?” She hears herself say to Gendry—a little tremulously. She lifts her chin up confidently to cover it up.

Gendry does not even check to see if she’s talking to anyone else–just stares at her blankly, eyebrows raised. “Is that a problem?”

“No! Nope.” Sansa blushes. “It’s just—my sister, she’s a huge fan too.”

Gendry shrugs. “Good for your sister.”

Then he just goes back to scribbling in his notebook, like the conversation is over and this is _not_ how she pictured this conversation going in her head. She lets out a small frustrated breath, but it only makes her even more determined to get this to work.

It _had_ to.

“It is, actually. A friend of ours, he got her that major exclusive CD, you know, the one only available in the Rhoyne? Arya can’t stop blasting it.”

That earns his attention. Gendry halts his scribbling. Sansa smirks inwardly, because he’s obviously a lot more interested than he was letting on. And that was the entire point.

He really _did_ like her.

“Arya? Arya’s your sister.”

That disbelief was expected. It was typical of everyone who knew one of them before knowing the other, and it was just something Sansa had gotten used to. Arya however, hadn’t,

“Yep.” She blinks in pretend surprise. “You guys know each other?”

“Kinda.” His lips twitch. “She’s my partner in auto shop.”

Auto shop. Sansa hadn’t even known they _had_ something as gods forsaken as autoshop at their school. Of _course_ Arya was taking it. That was how she met Gendry, then. And they’re partners?

_(This just got way too easy.)_

“So you probably already knew she was a Sand Snakes fan, then.”

Gendry actually _smiles_ then. It’s a nice smile that lights up his whole face. Arya should _really_ be thanking her right now. Honestly. He was a major upgrade from Micah.

“Nah. Your sister...she’s really not the type to open up easily.” He looks at her. “Not that that’s a bad thing.”

“It isn’t.” Sansa reassures him. It was true. But obviously, he’d been trying. So _that_ was something. She just had to get in there and fix this before Arya completely blew her chances.

So Sansa shrugs nonchalantly. “But she can be, when the right person comes along.”

_(Seed planted.)_

Gendry‘s eyebrows furrow, and before he can say anything else, the bell rings, and Sansa gathers her things and leaves without another word. It was a little rude, yes, but better to leave him with an air of mystery. He had some things to consider. On her way out of the door, Alys catches up to her, whispering in her ear.

“Phase One complete?”

“Set and match.” Sansa says back, smiling widely. “Jeyne’s gonna be _pissed._ ”

And Jeyne was pissed.

Mostly because she couldn’t care less about Arya’s love life and was still complaining about even having to do this in the first place, and because the next day, Sansa forces her to help put the first note in Arya’s locker during lunch. It doesn’t take long for every potential witness to filter out of the hallway, as it’s cheesecake day in the cafeteria. Jeyne would have left as well if Alys hadn’t promised her a slice.

“What does it even say?” Jeyne peeks over Sansa’s shoulder, trying to read the note in question.

_“From far away, you’re as beautiful as the sun. I wonder if your kiss is as warm as spring.”_ Sansa reads, glowing. Short and sweet.

“Phat!” Jeyne appraises, grinning. “Did you write that?”

Sansa scoffs. “Duh, it's, like, a famous quote.” She had paraphrased a little, as some of the language was too old timey, and romantic for Arya’s taste.

“From where?”

“Cliff’s notes.”

Jeyne snickers, and takes the note from her to slip into the vent of Arya’s locker, number 1059. Seconds later, there’s footsteps, and Sansa pulls her by the arm, leading her to slip inside a classroom where they could watch without being seen, just in case it turned out to be Arya looking for her locker.

Sure enough, it was, with her weird friends crowing behind her: Anguy, Ned, Shireen, and Hot Pie, who’s mother owned Hot Pie’s at the mall. They’re caught up in loud conversation, while Arya is fumbling with her combination. Sansa and Jeyne wait with bated breath, watching the rusty door pop open. Like clockwork, the notecard falls to the ground.

They can’t see Arya’s face, can only see the back of her head as she picks it up and observes it. They do, however, watch her posture stiffen. Seconds later, she crumpled it up, making to walk towards the trash can. Sansa groans and Jeyne whispers something that sounds suspiciously like “Told you” when Arya suddenly stops.

It’s for a long time. Almost a minute. Shireen is the one that catches her attention again, calling her that awful nickname she had acquired in middle school “Arry.” Arya unfreezes, walking away from the trash can and shutting her locker. She leads her merry band of misfits away.

But not before stuffing the note in her pocket.

Sansa squeals, pulling on Jeyne’s arm, who’s rolling her eyes. She’s still smiles a little though, opening the door to the classroom and stepping back into the hallway.

“Let’s go get my cheesecake. I hope Sigorn hasn’t ate it–the fat cow.”

***

Later that day, after school, as Sansa and Jeyne are waiting for Arya to get in the car (that was the only way Ned would let her ride with Jeyne, is if Arya got a ride as well) the real moment of truth comes.

Arya gets into the car without any snide commentary, which is surprising enough in itself. Sansa and Jeyne exchange a look, watching her from the rear view mirror. Her face is a little pink. Her lips are pressed into a thin line.

Sansa waits until Jeyne has pulled away from the curb to speak. It’s enough time shoot Jeyne a look to remind her to keep her mouth shut—her and Arya’s conversations never ended well—and pull her face into a politely disinterested, aloof expression.

“Good day?”

Arya’s head snaps up. She narrows her eyes at her. Of course she’s suspicious already. “Why are you asking?”

“Because it’s the nice thing to do.” Sansa replies without missing a beat, mustering up an eye roll. Arya stares at her a little while longer, and she does her best not to squirm under her gaze. It must be good enough for Arya, because she turns to look out the window, huffing. “Whatever.”

And the proverbial coast is officially clear.

Over the next two weeks, Sansa and Jeyne continue slipping notes into Arya’s locker. They watch her find them every time, and she always stuffs them in her pocket for later. But it’s hard to tell if the notes are even working, because it’s not like Sansa could outright ask him about it during class. He is nicer to her now that he knows she’s Arya sister, even nods to her in the halls sometimes. It’s a little disconcerting to Sansa that it had taken only 18 years for being related to Arya to actually benefit her, but she supposed now was better than never.

She sees them together, occasionally. Alys says that this is a good sign, considering they never really saw them together before. She’s always frowning at him, but her brow is soft, so Sansa know she doesn’t mean it really, and Gendry is always grinning down at her. But Sansa still doesn’t know if it means anything until one Monday morning comes along, and her, Jeyne, and Arya, are preparing to pile out of Jeyne’s car. Sansa and Jeyne are checking their reflections in their respective side mirrors, when Arya shoves forward, onto the middle of the console very abruptly.

“ _Excuse_ you.” Jeyne sneers, halting her check to glare at Arya, who’s trying to get to the mirror on Sansa’s sun visor.

“Move over,” She snaps at Sansa, who’s about to ask her what in the seven hells is her problem, when she takes out lip gloss. _Her_ cherry lip gloss that had gone mysteriously missing this morning. She had been forced to use her watermelon one instead.

Sansa is much too in shock at the fact that Arya is putting it on to start yelling at her about it. But in an attempt to keep up appearances, she says, a little lamely, “That’s mine.”

“No shit. I’m borrowing it. Ever heard of _borrowing_?”

“You didn’t _borrow_ it. You stole it.”

“Don’t spaz. I’ll give it back to you at the end of the day.” Arya rolls her eyes, making that obnoxious popping sound with her lips. When Sansa inspects closer, she also finds her wearing winged eyeliner that make her gray eyes pop, but it’s barely noticeable unless you’re really close to her face.

Sansa doesn’t have to take a wild guess to know who’d be that close.

“Whatever.” She manages to say, but Arya’s already out of the car, and slamming the door. Jeyne gripes at her for the strength of the slam, and Arya just flips her off without looking back.

(She’s wearing a dark green sweater.)

(Green, as in a color different from the black and gray she usually stuck to, like Jon.)

“Seven hells!” Sansa nearly shouts, slapping her hands against the dashboard in excitement. “It’s working! She’s trying to impress him! Gods, Jeyne, she _likes_ him!”

“No shit.” Jeyne retorts, still sour over her door and being shoved over in her own car. But she leans forward, considering Arya’s appearance. Gives an appreciative nod. “Look at her thotting it up!”

As close as Arya would ever get to thotting it up, anyway. Sansa had to admit she looked pretty today. She wore her hair half up and half down, and Sansa could have sworn she saw some studs in her ears. The lip gloss and eyeliner was a nice touch. It wasn’t mindblowingly sexy or anything, but she did look very cute, and for a second, Sansa could consider publicly claiming her for a sister.

“You know what this means.” Sansa sings out, shimmying in a little dance on her way out of the car. She shuts the door carefully. “Phase three.”

Jeyne follows her, but looks nowhere near as convinced.”I’ll admit it’s worked so far. But this is where it’s all gonna fall apart Sans. You do know that, right? There’s no _way_ that this phase is gonna work.”

“That’s what they said to Isaac Newton.” Sansa teases, earning a light shove from Jeyne, who is now smiling uncontrollably.

“Bitch.”

“I learned from the best.” She slings an arm over her best friend’s shoulder, pulling her close. Jeyne feigns a fight, but not for long, looping an arm around her waist.

“It’ll work.” Sansa says confidently. “You’ll see.”

“Sure.” Jeyne laughs. “We’ll see about that.”

***

It is Wednesday, when they finally see about that.

It’s all planned down to the second, practically.

Sansa had spent yesterday preparing with Jeyne and Alys, scouring the web for any social media profiles that Gendry might have. He had an Instagram, but that was it. It was private. They force Theon to use his spare account he once made to catfish one of his asshole brothers as a prank. It takes hours for Gendry to accept.

There’s not much to see—just that he used to live in flea bottom and was on a local rowing team there and he really liked motorcycles and black coffee. The coffee part is what they’re looking for, not that they know that until the the idea comes together in Sansa’s head.

It’s _exactly_ what they’re looking for.

On Wednesday, Sansa pours the cup of Italian roast black coffee Nan made for her father into the biggest thermos they owned, securing it safely in her bag.

“You don’t drink coffee.” Bran frowns, talking through a mouth full of fruity pebbles.

“I do today.” Sansa says breezily. Rickon is snoring, slumped over the island all dressed for school. His cereal bowl has been pushed to the side, forgotten. Sansa kisses him on the cheek, and his nose twitches. But otherwise, he doesn’t stir.

“Make sure he eats a little bit of his breakfast at least.” She tells Bran. She’d do it, but Jeyne was already honking up a storm outside. Sansa bends down to kiss his cheek as well. His nose scrunches, but he leans his head towards her anyway. “Have a good day.”

“You too.”

Just as Sansa is about to shout Arya’s name for the millionth time, she comes stomping down the stairs, lip gloss shining on her lips and eyeliner sharp (she had gotten really good at it.) She reaches for the empty pot, she scowls.

“Did Dad drink all the coffee before he left?”

Bran opens his mouth, but Sansa glares at him. That’s enough to get him to shut up. She turns to Arya, who’s still looking down at the pot in distaste.

“Guess so. There’s no time to make more. Come on, Jeyne’s—”

Three long honks way too loud for seven in the morning sound off in succession, and Sansa and Arya haul ass out of the house and down to the car.

“Took you guys long enough.” Jeyne lets out an exaggerated groan when Arya finally shuts her door. “Ready?”

The question is to Sansa, and she knows exactly what’s its about. She grins, patting her bag, which held the faulty Jimmy Choos and the thermos.“Yep.”

“You’re seriously asking that question after you’ve spent the last ten minutes honking like a fucking maniac?” Arya snaps.

An argument ensues of course, but Sansa doesn’t feel like mediating or listening. She’s too caught up in the plan for today. What she has to do. If it’ll work out. Butterflies swarm her stomach, the good time.

_(It’s now or never.)_

***

The first part of the plan happens at break, between third period and fourth.

Gendry, as always, is near auto shop. He’s typing away on his phone when it all goes down.

Turns out, it wouldn’t be so abnormal for Sansa to find herself in the area—she had to make sure of that—the ASB room was in the same vicinity, and that is exactly where she’s “heading” when she tragically breaks the heel to her last season Jimmy Choos, rolling her ankle, and landing ass first on the concrete.

It hurts _way_ more than she had planned it to.

The gasp of pain she exhales isn’t necessarily fake, and when Gendry hears it, he comes rushing to her side. There’s gravel in her thighs that digs deeper as he helps her sit up, grimacing sympathetically.

“Shit. You okay?”

_(Barely. Maybe Jeyne was right. Is Arya’s happiness really worth breaking my neck for?)_

“I think so.” Sansa tries rolling her ankle. There’s a sharp sting, but not overwhelming, blinding pain.

“Doesn’t look broken.” Gendry says. “Might still want a nurse to take a look at it, though. Can you walk?”

It’s like taking candy from a baby.

Although Jeyne would disagree, because the whole plan hinges on the belief that Gendry would be a decent enough person to help her, and she wasn’t so sure about that. Sansa had been apprehensive about that at first too, but she had never been more happy to be wrong.

The walk to the nurse’s office is long and painful, as each step sends a sharp zing of pain shooting up through Sansa’s foot. By the time they make it there, thankfully unseen by Arya, break is halfway over, but there’s still enough time for Gendry to go retrieve her purse from the ASB room, where she had put it so that the coffee wouldn’t be spilled during her fall.

“Thank you.” Sansa says, breathing a sigh of relief.

Gendry looks awkward as he scratches the back of his neck. A bit sheepish. “Uh, no problem.”

“No really, you saved me. Who knows how I would have gotten here without you?” She reaches into her bag, fumbles a bit to make the movement look more natural, less rehearsed. “Here. Take this.”

Gendry blushes. “It’s fine, really—”

“Don’t be modest.” Sansa says, holding out the thermos to him. “Take it.”

“What is it?”

“My Daddy’s sucky Italian roast. I guess he was totally buggin’ this morning and took my soup instead. You look like the black coffee type.”

_(Not like me and my friends spent a whole day stalking your Instagram to try to lure you into this trap, and just so happened to find out you post a lot about coffee. Not at all.)_

( _I’m being so obvious, Gods.)_

Not obvious enough, though. Gendry takes the thermos, turning it over in his hand. He bites his lip. “You sure you don’t want it?”

“Yep.” Sansa reassures him. “Coffee at this age stunts our growth. I know you don’t need much help in that department but I’m still hoping to squeeze in a few inches and be 5’10 like Cindy Crawford.”

“Oh. Cool.” The faintest ghost of a smile plays on his lips. “Thanks, Sansa.”

“No problem. Just don’t tell anyone where you got it.” She tries to keep the edge out of her voice, the urgency, or else he’d know something was up instantly. She flips her hair, trying for an airy conspiratorial whisper. “Me and my girls—we’re supposed to be on this group caffeine cleanse. They’d _kill_ me if they found out.

Gendry blinks, like it’s the weirdest thing he’s ever heard, but still nods. He’s too freaked out _not_ to believe her.

“Yeah, sure. Uh...thanks again.”

He turns to leave, but then Sansa remembers.

“Don’t drink yourself into a coffee coma. There’s a lot in there. My Dad usually shares his with Arya because the cup’s so big.”

“Arya drinks coffee?”

_(Hook, line, and sinker_.)

It’s so hard, to fight the smile that threatens to split her face wide open, but she does. Instead, she shrugs, inspecting her manicure. “Yeah. Way more than any normal person.”

Sansa literally _watches_ the lightbulb turn on in his head. That’s the same moment when his smile turns into a full fledged smirk, as much as he tries to hide to hide it.

“Oh.” He says. “Interesting.”

_(Yeah. It better be.)_

***

Sansa, Alys, and Jeyne are just getting back from the bathroom when it all _finally_ happens.

“I just feel like bailing, dude, come on.” Jeyne complains. “Why should we have to deal with Margaery any longer than we have to?

They’re discussing the yoga studio Margaery’s mother ran downtown that most of the girls on her squad went to. It had great reviews, and only opened up just last year. Margaery was a staple in that class, priding herself on her full, yet slim figure.

“I know what you mean, but at least it’s exercise.” Sansa says. “I feel like such a heifer. I had two bowls of special k, three pieces of turkey bacon, a handful of popcorn, five peanut butter m&ms, and like, three pieces of licorice—”

“Oh my gods, look!” Alys interrupts suddenly. “it’s Arya and Gendry!”

Sure enough, outside of the window was Arya and Gendry, walking side by side. None of her friends were in sight, and Sansa didn’t know if Gendry had friends here just yet to not be around, but whatever the case, they were alone.

“Go! Outside!” Sansa cries, gesturing to follow them.

As fast as she can on her still mildly injured ankle, Sansa leads Jeyne and Alys behind a thick bush where they can watch without fear of being seen. Arya and Gendry come into view. They stop at one of the benches under a thick oak tree. Gendry Is talking, and Arya is rolling her eyes, but she’s smiling a little too. They both sit down.

“Is that a photo op or what?” Alys whispers.

Her and Sansa start squealing, and Jeyne shushes them, watching the scene ahead with laser like focus. They’re sitting close, too close with all the bench they had available, but not so much where it was obviously affectionate. Nothing they’re saying can be heard, the wind’s too loud and they’re too far away, but it must be amiable enough, because Gendry takes out the thermos, and offers it to her.

Arya _blushes_ , punching him in the shoulder.

She takes it.

“Aw!” Sansa coos, clapping her hands over her mouth to make sure it isn’t too loud. Alys is giggling, leaning on her shoulder and sighing, and Jeyne is watching, mouth agape, and at loss for words.

“No fucking way.”

“Yes fucking way.” Sansa says smugly.

“There’s—there’s _no_ way.” Jeyne repeats, shaking her head. “There’s no way that Operation _Gonorrhea_ actually _worked._ ”

“Operation _Gendrya_.” Alys corrects, annoyed. But then she’s smug again. “And it did. See for yourself!”

And she was seeing. Arya and Gendry were now sharing headphones, listening to something while sipping coffee and talking to each other quietly. It _looks_ like a trident commercial. It makes Sansa feel all gummy and gooey inside.

She sighs dreamily. “Told you so.”

She has the urge to say it again, when Arya slides into the car after school, expression lost in thought but still some type of content. Sansa can’t stop staring at her. She had never seen her sister like this before.

Her head snaps up, and her eyes narrow. “What?”

“Nothing.” Sansa says, ducking her head down so she doesn’t blow all of her hard work in one day.

***

A week passes, and Sansa sees Arya and Gendry together a lot more often.

They never do anything as obvious as kissing, but she catches them holding hands once, _very_ briefly, and he’s always walking her to class. Arya also spends a lot of time shut up in her room, and sometimes, when Sansa wakes up in the middle of the night, she hears her talking to him. _Laughing._ Gendry also makes more of an effort with Sansa, actually talks to her during class, and even gives her a half smile sometimes. It’s never as big and dopey as the one he gets around Arya. Sansa doesn’t think they’re dating yet, but they are something.

It’s adorable.

What’s more adorable is Arya’s attitude change. She doesn’t threaten to hang Rickon off the balcony by his ankles as much, and when Sansa asks her to do something, she doesn’t immediately tell her to fuck off. In the car, she tries her best not to pick fights with Jeyne, and slams the door much more gently. She eats Sansa’s cooking with nothing more than a grimace, as if Jon were there forcing it down her throat.

And _that’s_ wonderful. Peaceful. The exact result Sansa was going for when she first hatched this plan. And now that it’s done, now that Arya’s a bit more tame and out of the way, she can focus on more important things rather than wondering if Arya was going to punch some kid today.

Now, Sansa can focus on Loras. And that calls for another type of plan.

It’s nowhere near as elaborate as the one she had for Arya and Gendry, and although it calls for her “boyfriend,” Jon didn’t need to be anywhere near this. Especially now that everyone knew he was in town. She already felt like shit for using him before, and had made things between them even more _weird_. No. This time, she would be doing it all herself. And it was only what any normal girl would do:

She sends herself flowers.

Love notes. Chocolates. Sometimes, the whole shebang. Every week, scheduled to arrive during lunch, when Sansa was sitting with her friends. Jeyne and Alys know all about it—hell, it was Theon that Sansa had penning the notes to make it look like a guy’s handwriting. Every time, without fail, the rest of the girls would rush up, cooing and fighting each other to get a look at the note. It always said something romantic, whether it be poetry or a line from the television soaps Nan has on on full blast when she gets home. Loras needed to know that she was being desired, if he didn’t already. It also helps with the whole Margaery thing, because if there was even somehow a tiny shred of doubt that she had a boyfriend after that kiss, it was gone now.

“That yummy boyfriend of yours again?” Wylla says excitedly one day at lunch, picking up the heart shaped box of chocolates and the notecard on top of it.

Sansa smiles. “I guess so.”

“Oh brother.” Margaery rolls her eyes. It must have been very distressing when the attention wasn’t all on her.“He sure is sprung over you.”

“Still rocking with the old ball and chain?”

Loras has just arrived at the table, sliding in right next to her. Sansa is suddenly very glad of the spaghetti strap dress she had decided to wear today. His eyes were all on her, no one else.

(She got that tip from Cosmo too. Sometimes, you had to show a little skin. Skin made boys picture you naked, which made them think of sex.)

“Yep.” Sansa makes sure it sounds a little reluctant. Hesitant. “But I’m not too sure I will be any longer.”

“Good.” Margaery snorts. “You might need a restraining order.”

“I should have known you were a heartbreaker.” Loras teases her, smirking. “Just look at you.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Sansa blushes, biting into one of her chocolates.

(Yet another tip from Cosmo. You always had to draw attention to your mouth with boys, because it made them think of kissing you, and that made them think of sex too.)

She offers the box to him. “Want one?”

“Thanks, Duchess.” Loras leans in, pecking her on the cheek, before taking one. “You always know what a man wants.”

(His lips are soft. So soft.)

_(I need to kiss him. I need to kiss him now.)_

“Woah there, tiger.” Alys says when they leave the table a little soon after with Jeyne, chuckling. “Try not to rip his clothes off in front everyone.”

“He’s just so…..” Sansa trails off, trying to find the perfect words to describe him. Beautiful. Chivalrous. Gallant. “Everything. Gods. He’s so perfect. This has to work. What if this doesn’t work?”

“Don’t get humble on me now, Stark.” Jeyne points a finger at her. “I don’t know what kind of fucked up deal you have with the Old Gods or the universe, but everything’s worked out for you so far. Don’t underestimate yourself. You found Arya love. _Arya”_

“Finding yourself some should be considerably easier.” Alys chimes in. Even though she didn’t like the plan, she still supported Sansa in it, and believed in her. That meant a lot. “Remember? You’re _every_ woman.”

“I am.” Sansa exhales. “I’m every woman.”

And this would work. Of _course_ it would.

***

“I’m home!” Sansa calls out later that day after Jeyne drops her off, slamming the door. Arya was at soccer practice. “Just me!”

“In here!” That’s her father, coming from the study.

He’s sitting at his desk, and there’s already other people inside there too that she doesn’t recognize. She’s not used to her father being home early, but sometimes he did that so he could take his work home with him.

She kisses him on the cheek. “Good day?”

“Yes.” He takes off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes. “You?”

“The best.” Sansa replies, and then hesitates.

_(He doesn’t seem like he’s in all that bad of a mood.)_

_(Maybe now would be a good time to ask him.)_

“I was wondering….I actually have some shopping to do. My yearbook photos are coming up soon and I have to look perfect.” Sansa says. “But….I can’t really do that without any transportation—”

“Sansa.” Ned begins, rubbing at his temples.

“Please, Daddy? Arya’s been ungrounded for a week now.” Sansa pleads. “Don’t you think I’ve had enough punishment as well?”

“What I _think_ is I don’t need you ending up in another accident. Besides, you haven’t even practiced your driving since you got in the accident.”

With all the scheming she had been up to, she hadn’t had time. But Sansa couldn’t just say that. “I’ll practice now.” She promised, clasping her hands under her chin. “All I need is the keys.”

Only the gods knew how much Sansa needed a good shopping spree right now, and hadn’t she earned it? After her good deeds with Arya and Gendry, which contributed majorly to society by making them nicer people? Where was her reward?

“Without a licensed driver, you’re not getting one.” Just as Sansa opens her mouth, Ned cuts her off. “Jeyne doesn’t count, either. I love that girl as if she was one of my own, but she’d watch you commit a crime and help you hide the body.”

_(She’d tell me how to commit the crime_ , Sansa thinks darkly.)

She assumes all hope is lost and turns to go storm upstairs and try to fill the space retail therapy usually took up in her heart with online shopping, something not nearly as satisfying, when Ned speaks up again.

“You could take Jon with you.”

She stops.

Pinches the back of her hand a little too hard.

“Jon’s home?”

“Yep. Was helping me with some work stuff.” Ned explains, flipping through the file on his desk. “I’m forcing him to take a break. You know how he gets about breaks.”

(Sansa does know.)

“I think some fresh air will do him some good. He’s been cooped up in an office all day today. He could help you practice, and I would have my peace of mind.”

_(What about my peace of mind????)_

Jon is here. Jon is back in the house. Just when Sansa had thought she finally washed her hands of him, at least for the month of September, he wanted to pop up again. He had the nerve to tell her he’d be around and then not be there, when she actually wanted him around, and now that she _didn’t,_ he was back.

How convenient.

How _fucking convenient._

But it was a chance to prove to her Dad she was making an effort to be a more responsible driver. As long as he saw her do it once, he’d probably believe she did a bunch of other times, and he’d finally let her drive again. If all it took was one measly driving lesson with Jon, one car ride—

Then wouldn’t it be worth it?

“Sure, Daddy.” Sansa sighs, folding her arms over her chest. “I’ll go ask him.”

***

Sansa finds him lounging in a pool chair in the backyard.

_(So much for lack of sun._ )

“Hey granola breath,” Sansa greets, pinching at his cheek and then wrapping her arms around his neck. “You’ve got something on your chin.”

Jon doesn’t even look up from his book. His response drips with sarcasm. “I’m growing a goatee.”

It was more of a beard, and it made his jawline only look even sharper, and that irks her. But there’s dark circles under his eyes too. She hopes her father isn’t keeping him too late at the office. Now wonder he looks so unkempt.

“Well that’s good.” Sansa pats at his legs, and he parts them so she has a place to sit on the chair. She takes her seat, tweaking at his chin. “Don’t wanna be the last one in the coffeehouse without chin pubes.”

Jon‘s mouth curves the tiniest bit, and he shuts his book. “I can’t tell you how much I enjoy these lovely chats of ours, but in the interest of saving time, what do you want?”

Sansa bats her eyelashes innocently, leaning back until her head rests on his shoulder. “Who says I want something?”

Some of her hair falls into her eyes, and Jon reaches down to push it behind her ear. His head is bent down so he can talk to her, and she can count nearly all the faded freckles on his nose, not that she’s trying. “You don’t?”

She swallows.

Pinches herself under the thigh so he can’t see.

“On the contrary, Daddy sent me here to get you out of the house.”

Jon shakes his head, scoffing. He picks his book back up, and opens to the page he left on. “Of course he did.”

“He’s just trying to make sure you’re not over exerting yourself.” Sansa implores, taking the book back out of his hand and bookmarking it. She holds it on the other side of her, although she knows he could probably get it if he wanted to.

(He doesn’t.)

“I’m not. I’m fine.” Jon insists. “Go ahead and go tell him that.”

“Just do me a solid.” Sansa pouts, tugging on the collar of his shirt. It’s dark blue, and his tie is loosened at his neck. She loosens it a bit more. “Daddy says I can’t have my car back until I practice with a licensed driver.”

“So that’s what’s in it for you?”

“Well, yeah.” Sansa says, but then quickly adds on with a sweet smile. “And quality time with you. I cherish our lovely chats too, you know.”

Jon barks out a laugh. “Laying it on thick, aren’t we?”

“Just a bit. A teensy bit.”

He rolls his eyes. It’s that same one that’s just for her. He’s grinning too, and even tired, it’s a nice sight.

(Objectively, of course.)

“What are the chances of you shutting up until you get what you want?”

“Hm.” Sansa cocks her head to the side, pretending to be deep in thought. “Slim to none. I always get what I want that way.”

Jon bops her on the nose. “Not always.”

Sansa holds back a huff or irritation, contemplating on whether or not she should have bit him. Instead, she goes the Rickon route. Widens her eyes. Makes her voice all whiny and annoying.

“Please, Jon? Please? Please? Please please please—"

“Gods, alright.” Jon groans. “Is that where he gets that shit from? You?”

“Maybe.” She grins cheekily, and musses up his hair, standing up. “Give me 30 minutes.”

_“30 minutes?”_

Sansa gestures down to her dress, nonplussed. “I need to change.”

It’s a little slow, the sweep of his gaze, and perhaps its because he’s tired and a bit off kilter, that he allows it to linger on shoulders for those five seconds, and his face is blank. She can’t really tell what he’s thinking, just knows that flush on his ears is similar to the one he had in the foyer that day. It makes her hot and it makes her cold and it makes her–

_Curious._

“You look alright to me.” Jon says finally, opening back up his book. The back of his neck looks red too. “20 minutes, and I’m leaving without you.”

And Sansa is cold again.

“Whatever.” Sansa mutters. “I’ll be down soon.”

She’s _frustrated_.

She doesn’t really understand _why._

(She doesn’t _want_ to.)

As Sansa shuts the door and marches up the stairs, she briefly wonders if he was more generous with his compliments to Princess Arianne.

(Not that it even matters, because it doesn’t.)

She has way more important things to worry about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sidenote: Politically, the Wardens act as Governors of their area, susceptible to reelection. Dorne, however, is different. In this universe, Westeros is one big country that Dorne isn’t officially apart of. It’s kind of like what Puerto Rico is to the US, except a bit more equal. In exchange for a lift on the trade embargo that was enacted that left them starving, Dorne folded in the war. They keep their own form of government and titles like in the book, but ultimately, they still answer to the Westerosi government in international matters. But they retain a lot more sovereignity than unofficially incorporated territories, because they have great military technology and a strong army that would have continued to hold Westeros off if they hadn’t been starving. It’s an uneasy peace that was only enacted in the last century, as the Reach was at war with Dorne under the direction of the Westerosi government (their version of the Iraq war) in an oil dispute. As the reach is a heavily populated area with a lot of military bases and henceforth military towns, they despise the Dornish. Despite this, being on good terms with them is a must because of their military power. Willas’ engagement to Arianne is a big deal, and is a step towards better relations between the Reach and the Dornish government. Sansa sees it as a publicity stunt. But that’s only her opinion.
> 
> ANYWAY, Gendry/Arya...my heart. Give me a moment....
> 
> Favorite lines/scenes/characters? Drop a comment, I’d love to know what you guys thought! If it’s something you want me to see sooner rather than later, come talk to me @jeynesgreyjoy on tumblr/twitter! Positive comments help motivate me to write!


	9. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes Sansa a bit more than 20 minutes to get ready.
> 
> Jon lets her get away with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 THINGS! 
> 
> 1\. LATE ASS UPDATE :/// Thank you guys did being so patient, I’m really just trying to get back into the swing of things with my regular routine and I didn’t anticipate the chapter being so long. I was forced to break it into two, so next chapter will be a Jon chapter as well. I think it’ll come a lot sooner, though, because it’s shorter.
> 
> 2\. Jonsa interactions to the MAX, as promised....You asked, and you received. We got ANGST. Just a little. A DROP (maybe several.) Be prepared for that.  
> 3\. I’m planning to release a new jonsa oneshot on Valentine’s Day...I just don’t know which. On my Twitter @jeynesgreyjoy I’ll be doing a poll to see which one you guys would be most interested in seeing, since I’m indecisive. If I get at least 75 votes on there, I’ll post ch.10 early next Thursday.
> 
> ENJOY THIS CHAPTER!

It takes Sansa a bit more than 20 minutes to get ready.

Jon lets her get away with that.

It gives him more than enough time to notify Bronn and Jory of the plan beforehand, and for him to change out of his work clothes—workplace casual was Jon’s enemy as much as formal wear was, and he’s insurmountably glad he still has clothes in his room here. But it’s still not enough to calm the flipping in his stomach or the way he keeps compulsively cracking his knuckles, because—

This is such a bad idea.

The worst idea in the history of ideas. Him being alone with Sansa. Him being alone with Sansa in the same car they had kissed in almost a month ago. Jon had just gotten her out of his system, no more dreams, no more thoughts, and here she was, squirming her way back in again, under his skin and inside his head—

It’s the worst.

She’s the worst.

Because Jon came to the conclusion that he was a pussy a long time ago, he tries to ask Ned if he’s sure he doesn’t need any extra help with the Tallheart case, tells him that he could stick around if he really needed him to, but Ned sees right through it.

Kind of.

“Nice try.” Ned told him. “You need a break. You’re going to pass out of exhaustion of you keep going like this. Would it kill you to have a little fun?”

(Yes.)

(She’s literally going to kill me.)

“Besides,” Ned says when Jon doesn’t answer, taking off his glasses. “You already said yes. Do you really wanna disappoint her?”

Jon squeezes his eyes shut, cursing inwardly.

(He’d rather die than do that.)

So he marches upstairs, maybe a little harder than necessary, and he raps on her door sharply. And although he knows it’s rude of him to do so, he does it three more times.

(The quicker this is over, the better.)

In the middle of the fourth knock, the door swings open to reveal an irritated, freshly changed Sansa. The black dress with the red roses is gone, replaced by a white blouse and black skirt that was toeing the line of appropriate, and the tightness of it certainly didn’t help matters. Distantly, Jon can already picture the results of his autopsy.

(Cause of death: leather skirt and absurdly long legs.)

“That was more than 20 minutes.” He manages to say. He only stares at her face, but that’s even worse. She was always pretty, but the raspberry lip she was sporting and her hair all tousled like that wasn’t helping his fucking case. At all.

“Relax, grumpy.” Sansa scoffs. “I’m almost done.”

She walks back in her room and leaves the door ajar, and Jon knows that’s an invitation to come in, but he knows that’s not the best idea either, considering the last time they were in there together, she was in his arms—

Jon cracks his knuckles. Just one more time.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” Sansa calls from inside the room, rummaging through something. Probably her closet.

He looks down at himself. It wasn’t anything special, just what he had laying around. Jeans he probably had since high school and a black tee with his leather jacket. “Is that a problem?”

It wasn’t the most fashion forward, but they weren’t even getting out of the fucking car. Jon didn’t see why that called for an entire wardrobe change in Sansa’s world. The dress was fine.

More than fine.

“No.” Sansa says, coming out of the room and shutting the door behind her. She holds up a leather jacket of her own. “We’re matching.”

The smug smile she wears on her face is as positively dorky as it is mesmerizing. She has about 20 different smiles and this one in his presence is so rare. He thinks it is his favorite.

Jon can’t help but laugh. “Does that mean I’m stylish for once?”

Sansa scrunches her nose, obviously not willing to go that far. She steps forward, and fixes the collar of his jacket, smoothing down his shirt. Her hand passes right over his heart. In his chest, it jumps a little.

She hums. “As close as you’ll ever get by yourself, anyway.”

He’s too busy reeling from her proximity to actually catch the insult, but Sansa moves on much too fast to allow him time to catch up. “Come on!” She grabs his hand and tugs him down the winding staircase. It’s a speed that’s sort of impressive considering she’s in a pair of heels, but Jon can’t focus on that either, her hand is too soft in his.

“I want a rematch from last time! You cheated!”

That’s Rickon, who’s shrugging off his backpack in the foyer. Osha takes it, and takes Bran’s as well, who is standing there, typing away on his phone. He stops to address Rickon.

“Whenever someone wins against you, they’re always ‘cheating.’” Bran says with finger quotes, rolling his eyes. “Besides, I don’t have time to kick your ass again. I have a project due.”

“Language.” Sansa lets go of his hand to pose with her hands on her hips threateningly. “Really? In front of Rickon?”

“Like he doesn’t hear worse playing GTA.” Bran rolls his eyes, but then he grins again. “Jon! I didn’t know you were coming over today.”

Rickon nearly knocks the wind out of him with his hug, but Jon laughs all the same, ruffling his hair.

He had talked to them almost everyday, but it was different than seeing them. He hadn’t been over as much as he claimed he would be. Hopefully, once things slowed down a little, that would change.

“Yep. Your dad needed some help with a case.”

“Are you leaving already?” Rickon frowns.

“I won’t be long.” Jon reassures him, reassures himself. “Just helping Sansa practice her driving. Wanna come?”

It’s a last ditch attempt to try to wiggle out of being alone with Sansa truly, a Hail Maiden. And it doesn’t work, because Rickon lets go immediately, shaking his head vigorously.

“And die? No thanks.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Sansa crosses her arms over her chest, glaring. Rickon shrinks back the tiniest bit.

“I’m just saying! I’d rather keep my head on my shoulders. And my lunch in my stomach. Driving with you always makes me carsick.”

“What about you, Bran?” Jon wonders if he sounds as desperate as he feels. “It won’t be long. We’re just heading to Long Lake, and back.”

Bran is gracious enough to have an actual excuse. Still, Jon can’t tell if he’s lying because he disappears into the dining room before he can make out his reaction. “Nah. I’m lagging on this science project for school. I should start.”

But seconds later, he pops his head back out, and Jon foolishly hopes that Bran changed his mind. but instead, he says, “Sans, are these your flowers? I kinda need the table.”

He’s holding a vase of multicolored flowers: tulips, hydrangeas, daisies, the works. It’s nearly the size of his head. There’s a notecard in the middle too.

“Yeah. Sorry.” Sansa apologizes, taking the flowers out of his hands. “Hold on. I’ll come back for the rest.”

(The rest?)

Jon is about to tell himself that he shouldn’t be this curious, but then he doesn’t fault himself for it, because Rickon is too. He heads toward the dining room, and after struggling with whether he should do the same, Jon follows.

It’s practically a fucking flower shop.

Bouquets covered more than half of the long table, all different colors and types. All far too large, and all with the same white note card stuck in the middle.

It makes his gut twist.

“Where’d you get so many?” Rickon interrogates. “It looks like Pamela Isley threw up in here.”

“None of your business.” Sansa retorts, from the foyer , where Jon presumes she’s setting them all.

And Rickon—

He thinks everything is his business.

It’s why he picks up one of the many note cards, unfolding it and grinning. Jon knows that he should probably stop him, but he is much too curious about what is on the card to make his mouth move, and—

Rickon begins in a high pitched voice,“I loved a woman as red as autumn with sunset in her hair.” He choruses an “ooooh” sound, and pretends to fan himself. “Sexy.”

“What?” Jon bleats.

“Let me see.” Bran smirks, moving to snatch the notecard away from them, but Sansa gets there first. Her cheeks are pink, and she proceeds to snatch every last notecard out of the rest of the bouquets.

“Just for that, you can move the rest of the flowers yourself.” She says coldly, glaring at Bran.

“He’s the one who read it!” He argues defensively, mouth agape, but Sansa is not in the mood to hear it, and starts for the door.

“We’re heading out, Daddy.” Sansa shouts to Ned, who is still in the office with the door cracked open.

“Alright. Have fun.”

She takes Jon’s hand again to pull him along, but it doesn’t feel so warm and soft to him anymore. Not with the fragments of that poem swimming in his head, along with words like boyfriend, and love, and whoever was sending Sansa these flowers was in love with her.

And that doesn’t sit well with him.

Not one bit.

***

Jon doesn’t really have time to sulk, after that.

(Not that he’s actually sulking,)

(it’s more like pondering.)

(Okay. Maybe stewing was a better word.)

Whatever it is, the tight feeling of irritation in his chest is soon forgotten because they’re flying down the road about ten miles over the legal speed limit, and Jon is gripping the sides of his seat for dear life, grinding his teeth to keep his nerves in check.

His eyes widen as she doesn’t even give the road sign they had just passed a second glance. “Hey! That was a stop sign!”

“What?” Sansa says, a little bit too innocently. “I totally paused!”

(She is going to kill me.)

“If I die in this car—” Jon begins through clenched teeth.

“You’re so dramatic.” She rolls her eyes.

“Maybe I’d be a little less dramatic if you slowed down.”

“I’m trying! I’d like to see you try to drive in platforms.”

Nevertheless, the car slows down gradually, enough to the point where Jon doesn’t feel the need to grip the sides of his seat. He exhales deeply, letting his head fall back against the seat in unconcealed relief. It earns him a glare.

“See? I’m a responsible driver.” Sansa pouts. “It wouldn’t kill you to have a little faith in me.”

It almost did, just a few seconds ago, is what Jon really wants to say, but he figures he better not. It doesn’t take long for the panic he had been feeling to recede, and he starts to remember where he is. Where they are. What had happened the last time they had been together in this car.

And the thing is—

It’s not like he had been thinking about it a lot.

Not as much as he had been.

Work and school kept him really busy. Finding ways to hide from the paparazzi who seemed to track his every movement kept him even busier. But even still, whenever he had down time, his mind drifted over to Sansa, which was a given, due to the whole fake dating thing he had gotten her wrapped up in and he had to come up with a way to get her out of it (which was find a godsdamned girlfriend) and sometimes, not always, when he had stressed himself out enough about the whole situation, he thought about the kiss—

but Jon had thankfully come to the conclusion that it wasn’t even about kissing Sansa per se—and it couldn’t be—it was about getting laid, really. Egg was right, Jon was just hyper fixated on that moment because it was the only moment he had in awhile. Funnily enough, the solution to that was also to find a girlfriend.

In other words, he was doomed.

“Earth to Jon Snow,” Sansa drawls, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “Helloooo?”

Jon blinks. “Yeah?”

She exhales irritatedly, gripping the steering wheel. “You weren’t listening to me.”

“Sorry.” He says immediately, but falters, because he can’t find anything good to say make up for it.

(Sorry, i was just thinking about the time we made out in your brother’s car.)

(Sorry, it’s actually been almost a year since I’ve touched a girl so I can’t stop thinking about it because I’m a horny loser.)

Something told him those excuses wouldn’t do, so he opts for the age old classic.

“I’m just….tired.”

Sansa glances at him, and it must be enough to convince her, because she softens. The petulant downward curve of her mouth fades. “It’s fine. I was just asking how school’s been, and work. Haven’t seen you around as much.”

(He remembers that moment in the hallway, and he remembers promising her that he’d be around just as much too, and it hits him again, full force, the possibility that Sansa missed him.)

(He still doesn’t know how to feel about that.)

“Yeah. It’s been...crazy.” Jon says finally. “Busy.”

She snorts. “That’s specific.”

And virtually an understatement.

The first week was horrible, and the paparazzi hadn’t start letting up until well into the third. But their definition of letting up was still having six different men stationed with cameras in the quad, and his classmates weren’t that different either. He saw people trying to sneak pictures of him on their phone, and Jon had to make a conscious effort not to snatch it out of their hands, because then the headline would be, Jon Snow, a monster? He settles for trying not to look stupid instead, so he wouldn’t become a meme or something. His teachers treated him differently than the other students, despite his insistence that they not, and Bronn and Jory following him everywhere didn’t make him the most inconspicuous.

Work was sort of a reprieve. The paparazzi were there too, camped outside, but security made it impossible that they be let in. And once Jon was in, no one cared about who he was. They didn’t bother taking pictures of him, or anything. All of the workers just treated him like the average runt of the litter intern, and he couldn’t have been more grateful to Ned for making it that way.

“I mean, obviously, I didn’t expect things to be fine and dandy but it’s like–” Jon breaks off in an exasperated groan. “Everyone’s watching me. All the time. What I had for breakfast, how long it takes me to walk from class to class, how I tie my tie. Everything I do is accompanied with a fucking article.”

“It’s a lot.” She says, like she knows.

Jon doesn’t really understand how.

For a moment, it looks like Sansa is somewhere else, maybe in the past. It doesn’t look like she’s too pleased with what she’s remembering. She bites the inside of her cheek and her knuckles go white against the steering wheel, until her face just smooths out into this blank amiable mask.

It’s gone before he can figure out what it all means.

“What about the manor?” She asks. “How are things there?”

Quiet. Just what Jon needed after the sort of day he always had to deal with, but a bit unsettling when he recalled Viserys’ words about a ghost haunting the grounds. Most of the time though, he’s too tired to be wary. He had only ever seen his uncle in the mornings, and made it a point to have breakfast with him, and when he got home, since Aemon always tried his best to wait up for him. He was a nice old man that enjoyed telling stories and was into dream theory. In Jon’s opinion, he was probably the least self absorbed Targaryen in the bunch, not counting Rain.

“Nice. My uncle’s really nice.”

“Good.” She smiles. “I’m glad.”

And that’s another thing Jon likes a little too much about her.

Sansa doesn’t always say what she means, but when she does, she means it. It’s genuine. It never happens with him that often—honestly it feels like there’s always a hidden meaning in her words when she speaks to him, but once in awhile she slips up. Once in awhile, she’s not on guard.

“What about you?” Jon prompts. They actually seem to be getting along for once, and he doesn’t wanna ruin a good thing. “How’s school for you?”

Her grin widens into mischievous proportions, and then fades into something sweet. “Amazing.”

The sigh she expels afterwards is dreamlike and barely falls short of a swoon, and for a second, the tiniest second Jon’s confused, and then he remembers.

He remembers.

(“I loved a woman as red as autumn with sunset in her hair.”)

(What the fuck?)

(What the FUCK?)

It’s an effort, to unclench his jaw, and when Jon speaks, he struggles to keep his voice level. Casual. Civil. Fucking nonchalant.

“That have anything to do with all those flowers? Who’s the douchebag that sent you the entirety of the glass gardens?”

Sansa doesn’t look so lovesick anymore, but when she narrows her eyes at him, he isn’t expecting the smirk she gives him. Nor could he ever anticipate the words coming out of her mouth.

“You.”

Jon nearly chokes. “Me?”

“Well, technically speaking.” Sansa says matter of factly. “You are my boyfriend, as far as my friends know. I have to keep up with the lie.”

He doesn’t linger too long on the fact that she just called him her boyfriend, although it does make his stomach flip. But it’s not really him, just the imaginary boyfriend she had conjured up for her friends. Better that than some random asshole that wouldn’t know how to treat her, and would eventually break her heart. Jon barks out a laugh, oddly relieved.

“So you’re sending yourself flowers and love notes? Like a loser?”

Unfortunately, they’re at a red light when he says this, and Sansa is able to shove his shoulder hard. It hurts, but it only makes Jon laugh even more. Her scowl deepens, and her cheeks turn that light pink shade he’s always been kinda fascinated with because of her.

“I’m joking!” Jon says, holding his hands up. “It’s just—I would have done it for you if you just asked. Less chance of being caught that way.”

He would have, if she really needed him to. But not before picking on her a little bit for it first. They had already kissed. Nothing could be more awkward than that. He was also kind of using her for the same thing, and felt super guilty about it. It was the least he could do.

“Isn’t that just kind of you?” Sansa sneers, stomping on the gas with a bit too much force when the light turns green. “No thanks. I’m not gonna involve you in this more than I already have. Theon’s done an okay enough job so far.”

He almost bites his tongue on how hard he grinds his teeth. “Theon is sending you flower arrangements?”

“I already told you I’m doing that,” She says. “He’s just writing the notes.”

“He’s writing you love letters?”

Jon never thought he had to worry about Theon with Sansa, not ever. Back in school he was never really a one girl type of guy, and Robb had made it clear that Sansa was off limits. He was pretty much wrapped up in whatever shit he had going on with Ros until he started dating Jeyne. Jeyne of all people. Jon couldn’t believe Jeyne would ever be cool with Theon writing Sansa love letters.

He sure as fuck wasn’t cool with it, and he wasn’t even dating Sansa. But that was just because he was looking out for her. Had to.

“Not even.” Sansa wrinkles her nose. It gives him an unreasonable amount of comfort. “Him and Jeyne come up with what to say, and then I use it for the floral arrangements. Easy as pie.”

Nothing about this seemed easy, or simple to Jon, and he felt himself getting annoyed.

“So you trusted Theon to do that and not me?”

“Uh, yeah.” The way she says it like it was the most natural course of action chafes. “No offense, but you’re not exactly the most romantic.”

“Romantic?” Jon gapes. “I’m romantic!”

Sansa turns to face him. Her eyes are light, all traces of her earlier annoyance had vanished, and she’s clearly trying her best not to grin. She’s enjoying this. Every bit of it. He knows that. He should calm himself, not play into her game, but then she makes a dismissive sound at the back of her throat, and says, “Sure you are.”

Sure you are.

It’s so smug, so disbelieving, and sympathetic, and it makes him want to die.

“I’m serious!” He insists. “I’m no stranger to—gestures of affection.”

She arches an unimpressed eyebrow. “Would your exes say the same?”

“I don’t—” Jon stammers, face growing hot, before finishing defensively, “She wasn’t big on stuff like that.”

“I’m sure that made things easier.” Sansa says under her breath.

She wasn’t wrong.

At first, Jon had considered himself supremely lucky that Ygritte didn’t care about romance. She was more of a “live in the now” person, and pretty low maintenance besides, She’d rather go rock climbing than sit inside of a restaurant, and didn’t believe in marriage. For their first Valentine’s Day, he planned a day time picnic and got a bottle of champagne with a fake ID and even wore a tie, which she had spent most of the date making fun of him for. He got her flowers once, just because he was thinking of her when he saw them, and she told him that she wasn’t dead yet. Jon had been glad, at first—he never had to plan anything big or stress over the perfect gift when the holidays came, but as time passed, it got old. It would have been nice to show her how much he cared about her without fearing she’d laugh him out the room. It was like she didn’t take him seriously. Take them seriously.

But he wasn’t going to explain that to anyone, least of all Sansa.

(How had they even got here, anyway?)

(Why do I feel like I have something to prove?)

Jon shakes his head, trying for another route. One equally as pathetic. “I don’t see why you need to do this in the first place. You said that your friends would forget you had a boyfriend anyway, remember? Shouldn’t you be doing your best to not try to remind them?”

“It’s not them I’m trying to remind.” Sansa rolls her eyes, like he should know that. “It’s Loras.”

“Loras.” Jon repeats blankly, without thinking.

She had said his name with a dreamlike sigh identical to the one she made before, except now she’s fucking glowing, and she said like she’s practiced it a hundred times, just so that she can get it perfect.

(Loras.)

He pauses.

Clears his throat.

It still comes out strangled.

“What the fuck is a Loras?”

That doesn’t phase Sansa one bit. In fact, it’s like she leaps at the opportunity to talk about the dude. “Margaery Tyrell’s twin brother. He’s finishing up school here instead of the Reach. He’s a soccer player. Like Robb.”

Margaery Tyrell. Wynafred and Wylla’s step sister. Jon remembered her briefly, but he never remembered her saying anything about a twin brother. But then again, whenever Margaery talked, he had usually tried to tune it all out.

“Sounds like you know an awful lot about him.” He says dryly, or hopes he does.

That strikes a nerve. Sansa glares at him, lifting her chin up haughtily. “I know enough. He’s handsome, kind, and the perfect gentleman—"

“The perfect gentleman?” All Jon could picture was some punk with Margaery’s face, and that didn’t stop him from wanting to punch it. “He’s barely a man.”

“He carries himself like one!”

“What does that even mean?”

Because now, Jon can’t help but picture some six foot tall asshole who was ripped from hours at the gym with Margaery’s face, and the tightness in his chest worsens, because what the fuck, what the fuck—

Sansa scowls again. “He’s kind—"

“You already said that.”

“He’s chivalrous—”

“Chivalrous.” Jon breaks in with a cold laugh. “I somehow doubt any teenage guy has a chivalrous bone in his body.”

He definitely hadn’t. Sure, he had opened the door for people but it wasn’t like he was rushing to give girls a ride on his white horse, and he could barely talk to one without stumbling over his own tongue, and he hadn’t wanted to, anyhow. They traveled in packs and were always giggling and Theon’s relationship with Ros and Robb’s with Jeyne Westerling had made him more than glad that he wasn’t dating.

Sansa bristles. “Loras does. When he first introduced himself to me, he kissed me on the hand—"

“That sounds more like sexual assault than chivalry.” Jon says through gritted teeth, even if he really wants to shout ‘HE DID WHAT?’ at the top of his lungs, and his fists hurt from clenching them so hard, because the nerve of this kid, the audacity—

“–he always opens the door for me, and walks me to class,” Sansa continues proudly.

(The bare minimum, then.)

“He calls me beautiful—”

“That’s not exactly new information to you—” Jon interjects.

“And he has this nickname for me.” She sighs. Again. Even more of a swoon than the last. “Duchess.”

(Duchess.)

Jon bites the inside of his cheek until there’s a metallic taste in his mouth, crosses his arm over his chest. “Sounds pretentious, if you ask me.”

Sansa shakes her head, turning the car off. They’re at Long Lake now, so she can finally turn to face him fully. She’s frowning, and that makes his chest tighten too.

“It’s romantic. Why am I not surprised that you can’t see that?”

There it was again.

That stupid word.

Apparently, romance was looking like a Marvel superhero, and kissing people on the hand randomly, and calling girls stupid nicknames, and honestly, if that’s what romance was these days, Jon was glad he wasn’t a fucking romantic. He was also glad he had no part in this plan, if it was all just to lure Loras in.

The tenuous grip Jon had on his emotion finally snaps.

“So Loras kisses you on the hand, opens a couple doors for you and gives you a nickname and suddenly he’s the one for you—”

“I’m not talking about this with you anymore.”

The way she cuts him off is so abrupt, and she raises her voice, just to get her point across, and for once, her face reveals exactly what she’s thinking, and all Jon wants to do is take the stupid shit that had just come out of his mouth and stuff it right back down his throat, because she looks mad, and he’s seen the way she pokes out her lower lip before to know that she’s hurt, too–

“I like him. He makes me happy. Why are you trying so hard to ruin it for me?”

(It’s a good question.)

(A really fucking fair question.)

It’s one he can’t answer, because he doesn’t know why, just knows that this is one of the worst things that could possibly be happening, right next to Sansa in front of him, looking like she’s about to cry, and he made her that way, he did–

“I’m not trying to.” He falters, kind of quietly. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to—Sansa.”

She moves to turn away from him, and Jon just knows that if he lets her she’ll stay mad at him even longer, and he can barely take the minute he’s suffering right now, so he grabs her hand, gently.

“Sansa.”

She stiffens.

She doesn’t move her hand.

“I wasn’t trying to pick a fight, I just—”

Jon doesn’t really know how continue.

(Just what?)

(I just hate the idea of you dating Loras?)

(I just hate the idea of you dating at all?)

“I’m sorry.” He finishes lamely, but earnestly. He tries to get that across by interlacing their fingers and squeezes. “I’m really sorry.”

Sansa bites her lip, silent for exactly 53 seconds.

(Jon knows this because he counts every last one of them.)

But then she sighs, pulling his hand into her lap, and he feels like he can finally breathe.

“I can take care of myself,” She mumbles..

He knew that. He’d be an idiot not to. She took care of almost everyone before taking care of herself. “I know.”

“I know you’re probably worried about me getting hurt again, but I’m fine. I don’t need you to protect me.”

That’s what she thought this was about.

What happened with her ex. She thought that he was worried about her dating, because he didn’t want her to get hurt again. And that’s true, because Jon knows in his heart of hearts that he’d rip this Loras kid apart if he even looked at her the wrong way. He knows firsthand what guys are like. He is a guy. They never have the best intentions. Ever. He wants to protect her, that’s a given.

(But it’s something else too.)

(Something else he can’t even begin to describe.)

“That’s not gonna stop me from trying.” Jon says eventually. Truthfully. He swipes a thumb over her knuckle. “I’m sorry.”

“You said that already.” Sansa teases, smiling faintly.

And he’d say it again. A million more times if she wanted. There was no excuse for how he just acted. Whatever was going on inside of him, whatever he was dealing with, it didn’t need to affect her.

“What can I do? To make it up to you?”

Sansa hesitates, looks like she’s about to reject the offer, but then—

She’s smiling, suddenly.

And with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that none of this was going to be good for him, Jon realizes he knows that smile.

“Actually, there is this one thing…”

***

It’s not really one thing.

It’s more like several things in succession.

Because first Jon has to nearly beg Bronn and Jory to make a detour from the intended course, and then they have to make several clipped phone calls to have the place cleared out, and then they have to wait for that to happen, and of course, by the time they pull up at Wintertown Mall (with Jon behind the wheel, because he didn’t really trust Sansa on the freeway) there’s at least 5 different people with cameras at the entrance —no doubt they had gotten a so called anonymous tip that King Rhaegar’s mysterious bastard was going to do some shopping—but Bronn and Jory, along with some of the security guards that worked for the mall help them avoid them by entering through another entrance.

“How handy.” Sansa says excitedly, looking around at the empty mall. The manager had finally left them to themselves, after an exceedingly embarrassing amount of ass kissing. “Maybe I’ll start taking you with me everywhere.”

“Please don’t.” Jon grumbles.

She ignores that. “We only have two hours. C’mon!”

Sansa takes his hand in hers again, pulling him along, and Jon is suddenly unable to complain.

Their first stop appears to be a fabric store. The minute they step in, employees rush forward, bowing to him and Jon mumbles an awkward hi, while Sansa takes it all in stride. When Annabel, the manager of the store, comes up to them offering help, she takes it gratefully.

“I don’t usually come here. I’ve always gone to Naerys’ in town square.” Sansa confides, looking around in wonder. “But you guys have such a wide variety of materials. It’s amazing.”

Annabel beams at the praise. “We do. We even carry Myrish lace, if that’s the sort of thing you’re looking for.”

“Hm.” Sansa purses her lips, and rolls out a dark blue fabric experimentally. She turns to him. “This is gorgeous, don’t you think?”

“Uh.” It just looked like a swatch of cloth to him. And he didn’t know anything about fashion to be critiquing it. “It’s shiny.”

She shakes her head, rolling her eyes. “Your college vocabulary, it never ceases to amaze me.”

Soon enough, Annabel leaves them to their own devices, and Sansa flits around the store like some kind of crazed butterfly, muttering things to herself, probably measurements, and looking at her phone for reference. It’s entertaining, and kind of addicting, to see her so caught up in something, so in her element. She had always moved confidently, but now she moved with purpose.

At one point, she shows him a swathe of silk colored burnt orange, and holds it up against herself. “This?”

Jon is about to push another half hearted compliment from his lips, something along the lines of “it looks soft” when he remembers their conversation in the car. When he remembers:

(“Loras calls me beautiful.”)

“It looks good on you.” Jon mumbles before he can talk himself out of it, scratching the back of his neck. “In my opinion.”

“Oh, this isn’t for me. It would clash horribly with my hair.” Sansa scrunches her nose in distaste. “But Arya…she likes this kind of stuff, right? Fall colors?”

“Arya?”

Jon’s not really sure if he heard her right.

Not only was the thought of Arya wearing anything other than her combat boots and jeans entirely unrealistic, but so was the fact that Sansa was making her something in the first place. She had never shown any interest in what Arya was wearing before, besides the usual distaste. She never lifted her finger to help Arya with anything, unless Ned forced her to, or something was in it for her.

And something fishy was going on here.

“Yep. Is that a problem?”

Jon narrows his eyes at her. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

Sansa wasn’t the type for pranks, but if Arya pushed her to it….

“Oh, relax. Your precious Arya isn’t in harm’s way.” She mock. “I’m just making her a dress for the dance.”

“Why are you so interested in her all the sudden?” Him interrogates.

He didn’t think anything Sansa could come up with would seriously hurt Arya, but her response to it would start up a ground razing prank war. If he nipped this in the bud now, the rest of them wouldn’t have to suffer.

“She’s my sister. I’m not allowed to show interest in what she likes?” Sansa looks a bit offended, but not enough to where Jon can say he believes her. The way her eyes widen is too calculated, and she looks down at her feet before she says it.

Her and Bran always look at their feet before they lie.

“Spare me.” Jon sighs, rolling his eyes. “If I ever saw you do something for Arya that wasn’t at least 90% selfish, I’d die of shock.”

At that, Sansa smiles sweetly, lifting her hand up to pat his cheek condescendingly.

“Oh, that’d be more than enough reason for me.”

***

“Arya wouldn’t set foot in here, just so you know.”

An hour later, they’re standing in front of the Peach, a store that was probably as frilly and girly on the inside as it looked on the outside. The fabric store hadn’t taken long, but almost everything after that did. Because then they had to buy Arya shoes to match the dress, and jewelry to match the shoes and the dress. Jon stepped in where he had to, telling her that Arya wouldn’t be caught dead wearing stilettos, and that she barely wore earrings at all, and Sansa allowed him to. Even seemed more thankful for it. But it still resulted in several different shopping bags that he was currently being weighed down by while Sansa skips ahead of him, swinging the tiniest bag of them all, and he’s tired.

“Oh, this is for me.” Sansa admits, smiling triumphantly. “I was originally planning to buy an outfit for my senior pictures, but I just remembered I already did that during the summer. Now, I’m looking for the perfect winter formal dress for when Loras asks me.”

(Fucking Loras.)

Winter formal was the biggest dance at Queenscrown besides Prom. Everyone went. Everyone… except Jon that is. When he was a freshman, he had been planning to just tag along with Robb and Theon, but then Robb asked Dacey, and Jon knew it wouldn’t be long before Theon found a date as well, and rather than be following them around like a total loser, he just never went. The next three dances all took place when his mom was sick, so even if he wanted to, he couldn’t go. Not that he’d rather be anywhere else than beside her, anyway.

He knew enough about it, though. For an entire week at school, the hype leading up to it was unbearable, as it always the day after their hockey CIF finals. There was an assembly, a pep rally, and this whole shit show they called the Snow court, where people nominated themselves for King and Queen in the North. It was a total popularity contest. He knew Robb had won their senior year, with Jeyne Westerling by his side. If Jon knew Sansa, that’s probably what she would be going for.

He’s able to roll his eyes, because she’s too busy opening the door, but he also takes the time to remind himself to bite his tongue on all things Loras related. This was how they got into this situation in the first place, and the last thing he wanted to do was make her upset with him again.“Winter formal is like, four months away.”

“It doesn’t hurt to be prepared!”

A red haired woman greets them with a curtsy. “Your Grace. Miss Stark. I’m Tansy. I’ll be assisting you today.”

Sansa looks back at him over her shoulder, raising her eyebrows and mouthing “Miss Stark.” Jon has to laugh, because she looks so delightfully surprised that it makes his chest ache.

She’s entranced by all of the gowns around her, and very much looks like a kid in a candy shop. Off the bat, she grabs twelve different dresses and rushes to the dressing room, while Jon sits on the couch in the waiting area, gladly letting the bags fall off his arms. He’s about to breathe the deepest sigh of relief that he’s finally alone, when Tansy pops up again, with several other dresses to hang outside Sansa’s dressing room. They were all either dark green or gold.

“Can I get you anything, Your Grace?”

Jon almost points out that he’s not even old enough to drink, but he remembers that the law doesn’t matter much when you’re royalty, which he was now. And he’s tempted, truly, but remembers that it was his responsibility to drive them back and that it most definitely wasn’t a good idea to stumble out of the mall and into the waiting arms of the paparazzi tipsy, anyhow. “No, thanks.”

“Alright.” She flashes him a grin. “I’ll make myself scarce.”

The minute she leaves the area, the sound of Sansa moving around in the dressing room are ten times more noticeable. He hears the rustle of tulle and the whir of zippers coming down, and frustrated huffs that concern him a little.

“You okay in there?” Jon feels compelled to ask.

There’s a the sound of the lock clicking, and Sansa pokes her head out. She’s not naked, thank gods, but wearing one of the many dresses. It looks like it’s green. A strand of hair falls into her face, and she blows it away.

“Loras likes gold and green.”

Sansa says it like it’s the worst news she’s ever gotten, or like he committed some tragic affront against her. Although he didn’t understand why it was such a big deal, maybe it’d be enough to make her forget all about him.

“Is that a problem?”

“Duh.” Sansa snaps shrilly, stepping out from behind the door. “I look like a Christmas tree.”

There’s an absurdly fluffy tulle skirt that reaches her ankles that certainly didn’t help with the pine tree imagery, and a sweetheart neckline. Nor did the color, a forest kind of green. But she still looked pretty in it. She looked pretty in everything.

“You look nice.”

(It’s the closest he can get without saying anything weird.)

“Nice.” She throws her hands up in the air, making a sound of disgust. “I look like something the grinch stole!”

Sansa slams the door of the dressing room shut, and goes back to square one.

(Nice.)

(Nice.)

(What the fuck was I thinking? Nice?)

Jon’s thoroughly rehearsing ways to compliment her like Loras would, but without sounding like a total creep, when the door opens. Sansa pokes her head out again, face stern.

“Now, I need your honest opinion.”

Gods, he was not good at these types of things. Every single courtesy he had thought to offer her flies out of his head, and he groans, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Sans, I don’t know anything about fashion–”

“No,” She acquiesces, grimacing. But then her jaw becomes set in that stubborn way Arya’s did sometimes. “But you do have a guy’s perspective. Are you gonna help me or not?”

(From the way she was staring at him, Jon figured he didn’t have much of a choice.)

He sighs. Scratches at his jaw. “Sure.”

“Good.” Sansa smiles triumphantly, but it quickly fades, and she narrows her eyes at him. “Honest opinion, Jon. Seriously.”

He makes an x over his chest. “Cross my heart, hope to die.”

She rolls her eyes, but her lips quirk up all the same. She takes a deep breath, as if she’s steeling herself, and steps out from behind the door.

And Jon blinks. Once. Twice. Rubs the palms of his hands, which are suddenly sweaty, against his jeans. His mouth falls open, but he’s quick to catch it, and clenches his jaw so hard his teeth rattle.

“Uh—” His voice in his own ears doesn’t even sound right. “I’m not sure about this one.”

Sansa sighs, like she knew this was coming, and rubs at her temples in frustration. “It’s the the mermaid skirt, isn’t it?”

The mermaid skirt.

The fucking mermaid skirt.

That was all fine and dandy, and Jon couldn’t give one fuck about it, because it covered up her legs, and honestly, those things could do with a little covering up from time to time, but it’s not that. It’s not even the fact that she’s wearing dark blue, which puts her on a whole other level of striking and was sure to catch anyone’s attention, it’s her chest, which only….uplifts in the fabric, and if he’s looking at it, if that’s the first thing he sees than he can’t imagine what would be going through that punk Loras’ mind—

“The skirt is fine it’s just…” Jon licks his lips, they feel really dry suddenly. He starts cracking his knuckles. “Your…chest. It’s not the most ideal situation while dancing.”

It was a stupid excuse, but the most viable one he could think of. It’s not like he could come right out and say it, Dany would probably call it slut-shaming. So he keeps it safe, fully expecting a sharp tongued remarked about his own dancing skills.

“I guess you’re right.” Sansa murmurs, eyeing her reflection critically in one of the many mirrors. But then she turns back. “Don’t guys like this sort of thing though?”

(Jon knows that he likes it.)

(Very much.)

(Too much.)

(Seven fucking hells.)

He clears his throat. Pretends to cough so he can think of an appropriate answer. “If that’s the sort of thing you’re going for.”

“You’re right.” She says. “I can’t look too easy.”

(Easy.)

(Is there a more socially acceptable level of easy that you’re going for?)

Jon squeezes his eyes shut, wills himself to think of unpleasant things. Uncle Aemon’s dentures. Theon’s laugh. The body of the dead cat Sansa had ran over, even the tire tracks within its fur—anything and everything to will away the semi hardness on his thigh, and he comes to the miserable conclusion that he is the easy one in this situation. Way too fucking easy indeed.

(What is wrong with me?)

The next dress isn’t so bad, thankfully.

It’s long sleeved, dark green, and modest. It’s everything he could have asked for, and Jon almost tells Sansa so, until she turns around and reveals an expanse of smooth silk skin, dotted with the occasional freckle, and he curses under his breath.

(It’s fucking backless.)

“Verdict?” Sansa prompts.

“It’s…” Jon swallows. “I like the back part. It’s cool.”

She hums, deep in thought, tilting her head. “You don’t think it clashes with my hair? The color, I mean?”

It was a lot more muted than the last green dress, and the straightness of the skirt helped eliminate the holiday feel he had previously picked up on. Her hair was like fire against it, and in his opinion, that made it all the more better.

“No.” He mumbles. “I like your hair.”

Sansa quirks an unimpressed eyebrow at him in the mirror, flipping all of the red out of her face with an air of disdain. “It’s a nuisance.”

The words leave his mouth without his permission. “It’s perfect.”

Jon wishes he was stupid enough to think she didn’t hear it.

But he knows her way too well.

The glance her reflection shoots him is just that, a glance, something quick that he can’t read. When she turns around, her cheeks are flushed, and her expression wavers, as if she’s not sure if he’s being serious and he knows that’s good, because it means that she can completely disregard it, but it also sucks, because for once, Jon just wished she’d believe him.

She lifts her chin up, meeting his eyes, expression smoothed into one of aloofness. “Whatever. I’ll put this one in the maybe pile.”

Jon minds his comments after that.

Keeps it all to “nice” and “pretty” and cool. A step up from the “fines” and “okays” he had been giving her lately. He knows enough to steer clear of the word “cute” because for whatever reason, it practically made Sansa start foaming at the mouth. Once in awhile, a dress hitches up a little too high, or he catches a flash of skin and Jon has to start his mantra all over again (dentures, Theon, roadkill. Dentures, Theon, roadkill) and it works. For the most part.

“You choose one this time.” Sansa demands, showing him what remained of the pile of dresses that Tansy had picked out for her. “I feel like I’m just picking out more of the same.”

Jon wants to remind her that he’s the last person that should be picking out clothes for anyone, but he also wants to get out of here. He was getting restless, sitting on this couch, and he had homework to do. So he skims the hangers she holds up to him. He taps the first one his eyes catch on.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

“What?” Jon asks, nonplussed.

“You have a thing for gray.”

Before he can ask her what the fuck that even means, she disappears back into the changing room and he’s left to ponder that himself. Sulk is a better description, though. Was he really that predictable fashion wise?

(I do not have a thing for gray.)

“Need some help in here!”

Jon stills.

(He thinks if he ignores it, maybe it’ll turn out he hadn’t really heard it after all.)

“Jooooooon!” Sansa whines. “Hello? Come help me!”

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

He’s not sure this is something he can take.

“I’ll go get Tansy—”

“There’s no time for that.” Sansa interjects impatiently. “We only have 20 minutes left and three more dresses to try on, and I still haven’t even bought my shoes. Just hurry up and get in here.”

(She really is going to kill me.)

“Fine.” Jon hopes he sounds like he couldn’t care less, but his palms are sweating again. He wipes them on his jeans. “Hold on.”

(It takes him two tries to unlock the door, and he can’t even speak because his heart is in his throat.)

The dressing room is bigger than it looks on the outside, and Sansa’s standing in the center of it, in front of a mirror, back exposed and dress only halfway zipped. A back, he could handle. A few freckles? No problem. He breathes a sigh of relief.

“The zipper.” Sansa explains, tugging at it frustratedly “I can’t get it.”

Jon steps closer, barely within arms length of a distance to observe the zipper. It’s wedged in the cloth of the seam.“It’s stuck. Hold on.”

With two experimentally tough yanks, the zipper is up, and the dress is closed. It doesn’t really do much, as the dresses’ straps are spaghetti thin and expose most of her back anyway, but he averts his eyes, stepping back.

“Thanks.” Sansa heaves a great big sigh.

“You’re welcome” is what normal people would say, but Jon just grunts, because even though he wasn’t as close to her as he had just been, everything smells heavily of lavender. Just as he’s moving to escape, a fine boned, soft hand catches him around the inside of his elbow.

“Wait! You might as well tell me what you think. You’re already here.”

(Yes, I’m already here. I’m already here, and I really fucking shouldn’t be. I’m already here, and this was a bad idea from the jump, but since I can’t really refuse you anything, just like I’m not going to refuse you now, and that is bad, so bad, really just horrible—)

Jon bites the inside of his cheek.

He looks up, intending to just give her a quick once over and leave, but he doesn’t. He physically cannot.

Not when she looks like this.

The dress is more silver than gray, so bright compared to the other dresses she had tried on before, which was why it stood out to him in the first place. The cowl neckline, that’s downright torture, but it covers enough to keep her modest, and the skirt is like a waterfall, and he doesn’t notice the slit through the fabric that runs up her thigh until Sansa spins experimentally, testing the fluidity of the fabric. She must like it, because she smiles in satisfaction.

(She looks more like royalty than me.)

“You don’t like it?”

His mouth isn’t working.

Sansa visibly deflates, crossing her arms over her chest. “Is it really that bad?”

“No.” Jon despairs inwardly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Not at all.”

“Then why are you staring at me like that?” She squints at him suspiciously.

“I like it.” His brain still isn’t working completely, and he doesn’t have enough time to scramble together a response that didn’t make him seem as desperate at he felt, so he just tells the truth. “You look...beautiful.”

There it is again.

That look, the one he really can’t make out, and it lasts a lot longer than the last. Jon is convinced that this is just something else that she’ll disregard ultimately, and he’s about to curse himself for doing this, making things weird, but then she shrugs, and flips her hair before turning back to the mirror.

“I know.”

(He supposes that’s better than nothing.)

“What do you think?” Sansa gathers her hair in her hands at the top of her head. “Hair up or down?

“Uh…” Her shoulders are slim and pale. He could probably count the freckles there, he is so close. Too close. He can’t speak, his mouth feels like dust and he doesn’t want to, anyhow, so he steps back. Until he’s near the door.

“Maybe both.” She muses, letting some of her hair fall back down her shoulders. It frames her face perfectly. She’s not even trying, is the worst part.

“Yeah.” He hears himself croak.

“Here.” Sansa fishes in the pocket of her leather jacket, handing him her phone. “Take a picture. For Alys and Jeyne.”

Jon takes his quickly, grateful for anything else to do rather than stand around looking like an idiot. As soon as he takes it, Sansa snatches it back, eager to see it.

“This is the one.” She declares confidently, and grins at him. “Who knew you had good taste?”

“Yeah.” Is all he says, because then he remembers why they’re even there in the first place. For Loras. That’s who this was all for. In the end, she’s gonna go to the dance with Loras, looking like that, in a dress he had been dumb enough to bring to her attention by picking it out, and it’s irritating, and it’s wrong, and it makes Jon crack his knuckles again—

“Do you think he’ll like it?”

It’s literally the last thing he wants to hear right now, but he looks at Sansa and she looks so happy when she says it. So excited. But a little nervous too. She gestures to the dress. “It’s not gold or green.”

(She likes him. She really likes him.)

Jon’s chest feels like it’s gonna cave in from the uncomfortable pressure building, and he can’t figure out why. Can’t figure out why this pisses him off so much when it has the potential to make her happy.

(And she deserves happy more than anyone he knew.)

“If he doesn’t, he’s an idiot.” Jon says eventually, and tries for a lame smile.

Sansa laughs. “You’re just saying that because you already don’t like him.”

“Maybe so.” He grimaces, because it wasn’t like he was being inconspicuous about it. “But I mean it.”

She shakes her head, but in fond exasperation. For the third time that day, she takes his hand. Jon fits it against his without thinking.

“He’s good to me, Jon.” Sansa says softly, but without any less confidence. She smiles at him. “You’ll see.”

At that moment, he realizes he doesn’t doubt it’s true.

This Loras guy probably was everything she said he was, and maybe more, or he was just another high school dickhead, but he had never met the guy. All Jon could do was trust Sansa’s judgement, and he did, for the most part. He doesn’t need to see them being all lovey dovey to know that he’s wrong.

And most importantly, he doesn’t want to see.

(Not at all.)

There’s a knock on the door. “Your Grace.”

It’s Jory, the king of impeccable timing. Of course he chose this moment to walk in from patrolling the entrance outside, to catch him in Sansa’s dressing room. Jon bites back a curse, which Sansa stares at him bewilderedly for, and slips outside of the door.

Jory does not look pleased.

Jon feels like his face is on fire. “Yes?”

“We don’t have much longer, about 20 more minutes.” He says stiffly. “And the more time that passes, the more people who wait for you outside.”

It was a good point, and something he knew already. Back in King’s Landing, when he went out with his siblings, Dany, and Arianne, they could never stay for more than three hours. The paparazzi would start trying to find ways to breach security, or crazed fans. Each time they left, security always had to beat back the tidal wave of photographers. They were always being watched.

(Jon knew he’d never be unnoticed again.)

“Alright.” Jon knocks on the door. “Sans—”

It swings open immediately, and Sansa comes out, dressed back in the clothes she came in with, and her dress over her arm.

“I’m good. I’ll just pay and we can go.”

He frowns. “You sure? We still have 15 more minutes. You just said you needed shoes–.”

“I can get them some other time.” She assures him. “I don’t wanna make it harder for us to leave.”

But Jon still hates that she just can’t do it now. This was supposed to be his way of making up for being an asshole earlier. If he were normal, they could do things like this and they wouldn’t have any time limits, and once again, it’s all his fault. “You shouldn’t—”

“It’s fine.” Sansa emphasizes. “You’ve done enough already. I’ll go pay.”

***

Outside is pure chaos.

They aren’t even there yet, but he can see it through the glass of the doors. Flashing cameras. Paparazzi climbing over each other to get the closest to the entrance. Rather than telling him “I told you so” Jory asks the manger to loan some of his security to escort them to the car. The entrance they had used to get in is crowded with press too.

“Woah.” Sansa breathes in shock. Her face is a little pale, and she’s wrapping her arms around herself. “Is it usually like this?”

“It could be worse.” Jon shrugs, and tries for a joke to ease her nerves some. “Lucky for us I’m just a bastard.”

It doesn’t do the trick. Sansa frowns at him. “I wish you wouldn’t say that.”

It didn’t hurt him, not like it used to. Nowadays, bastard being used was just as common as his first name. “It’s what I am.”

She shakes her head stubbornly. “It’s not all you are.”

It’s exactly what he had told his father before he left King’s Landing. What he’s trying to prove to him through this whole internship and school madness, with all the sleepless nights and early mornings. I’m more than what you want me to be. Let me be more than what you want me to be.

And somehow, she knew.

(She always knew.)

“This was so stupid.” Sansa sighs, biting on her lower lip. “We shouldn’t have come here—”

“It wasn’t—

“It was.” She insists, voice going a little shrill. “How are we even gonna get out of here? They’re everywhere.”

This is only the second time Jon has ever seen her like this–panicking under pressure. Or at least as close to panicking as Sansa could get. She’s just wringing her hands, and walking back and forth, trying to think. It’s not anything like the freak out on the farm, but she was still unsure, still nervous. Whatever her experience was with press before, it was bad, and the last thing she wanted to do was go through it again.

Jon steps in front of her.

She halts, puffing her cheeks out.

“Sansa.” He says, gently. “You need to—”

“Do not tell me to calm down.” Sansa warns lowly, pointing at him. “I’m— I am calm. I’m collected.”

“You are.” Jon agrees quickly, wanting that flash of anger in her blue eyes to recede because it never meant anything good for him. “The calmest. You just— Slow down a little bit, yeah? Slow down.”

She looks like she’s about to argue with him about that for a second too, but then she closes her eyes. Takes a few deep breaths. When she opens then, they look a bit less like chips of ice, and she’s nodding. He counts that as a win.

“Better?” Jon rubs at the sides of her arms.

Reluctantly, she nods.

Just then, there’s footsteps. They turn around to find Jory right behind him with two burly guys dressed in black. Security guards, he presumes. They all bow.

“Your Grace. Tom and Lem have offered to assist us.”

Tom and Lem bow again, and Jon nods at them, but his attention is still on Sansa. She’s calmer now, but she still looks like she’d rather have her teeth pulled out than walk through that door. But he knows she’ll do it anyway, and won’t complain about it. The least he could do was make it more comfortable for her.

He takes his sunglasses out of his pocket. “Take these.”

She does, but frowns down at them confusedly.

“Helps with the flash.” Jon explains, tapping a finger gently against her temple.

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’re the one they’ll be pointing cameras at, not me.” Sansa argues, trying to hand him the glasses. “I’ll be—”

“You’re wearing them.” Jon interjects firmly, and shoves his hands in his pockets so she can’t force them into his hands, which is something she’d totally do. “I’m not taking them back.”

“Well, I’m not taking them when I know you need them more than I do.” She shoots back, brow furrowed.

Irritation is metallic in his throat. Couldn’t she see he was trying to help her? “Sansa, take the damn glasses.”

Sansa glares at him. “No. I want you to take them.”

“Gods, you are so—” Jon begins, teeth gritted.

“I have an alternative.” Bronn announces. Jon had almost forgot he was there. But he seemed vaguely amused, so he must have been listening to their squabbling (yet, there wasn’t often a moment where Bronn did not look amused.) He takes his own sunglasses off his collar and offers them to him. “You can use mine, your Grace. I have an extra pair.”

(He probably doesn’t. Jon sees that in his eyes.)

(But if it gets her to wear the godsdamned sunglasses…)

Jon takes them, muttering his thanks, and with a little more force than needed, he shoves them on his face. He lets his hands fall to his side, and scowls at her. “Happy?”

“Content.” Sansa corrects primly, the ghost of a triumphant smile on her face. She puts the pair he gave her on, though, pushing her hair out of her face.

“Your Grace, I’ll need the Mazda keys.” Bronn informs him. “I’ll drive it back, and you two will ride with Jory. Don’t think you guys being alone right now is the best idea.”

Jon had expected that, honestly, so he nods, and tosses him the keys. As Bronn catches the keys, and moves to take the bags with him out into the chaos, the door opens and the pandemonium fills the entryway. Sansa flinches, and it’s so minuscule he wouldn’t have noticed if he happened to blink at the same time. He takes her hand, his earlier irritation, and squeezes. He tries to put something into it, some kind of promise. A guarantee that everything would be okay. That he would make this up to her, too.

She squeezes back.

“It’ll be over before you know it.” He swears, low enough so that only she can hear. “Just...stay close to me. It’ll be fine.”

“I know.” Sansa says, but he hears the way her voice wavers a little. She must too, because she sighs, and presses the heel of her palm into her forehead. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me—”

“Nothing.” Jon cuts in stubbornly. “Nothing is wrong with you.”

“Your Grace.” Jory clears his throat. “Ready whenever you are.”

Jon wants to snap at him, because obviously they weren’t anywhere near fucking ready, but Sansa stops him just as he opens his mouth. She takes a deep breath, rolling back her shoulders. “Okay. Yeah.”

He raises his eyebrows at her. “You’re sure?”

She nods, tightening her grip on his hand. “Let’s just get this over with.”

(She’s obviously trying to go before she can talk herself out of it.)

(He might as well take advantage of that.)

“Okay. Let’s go.”

***

It’s all quick and painless, at first.

They’re out in the open and Jory goes first, pushing the crowd back and creating a pathway. Tom and Lem are behind them on both sides, keeping the paparazzi from getting too close. The camera flashes are plentiful, and he can barely hear himself think over the shouts of, “JON! JON! HEY! SANSA! SANSA! OVER HERE!” and the latter sort of unnerves him.

(How do they even know her name in the first place?)

Sansa’s hand grows tighter around his. Her other arm slips around the inside of his elbow, and that’s a strong grip too. Jon doesn’t mind, just continues to pull her along, wishing he could reassure her. Tell her that they were almost done–

But then a cameraman lunges forward on Sansa’s side, way too fucking close. Even with his glasses, the flash is still blinding. He’s shouting her name, “Sansa, Sansa” and he says something else, but Jon can’t really make it out, as the noise coming from his side drowns it all out. Sansa must hear it, because her face becomes pinched and her lips are pressed into a thin line. She turns away, and then the guy’s hand shoots out, quick as a snake, wrapping around her arm—

Jon doesn’t even think.

He reaches forward, grabbing the guy by the collar and yanking him forward, hand around his throat. There’s a tidal waves of gasps, and shouts of disbelief and he feels Jory trying to pull him away, pleading in his ear, but he can’t even hear, not over the blood roaring in his ears and his heart beating in his chest, and distantly, there’s this tugging at his arm, and a low, very quiet whisper in his ear.

“Jon, don’t.”

Sharp nails dig into his hand. He smells lavender. His head starts to clear up, just a little.

“He’s not worth it.” Sansa whispers. “This is what he wants. You’re giving him what he wants. All of them.”

He knows that.

He sees the cameras flash in the background, and the hush of murmurs. This would surely be front page news tomorrow, maybe even tonight. The assholes face is turning red, and he’s clearly struggling for breath, but even still he looks ecstatic about it. It makes Jon sick to his stomach. He shoves the guy away, and on to the ground, where he gasps for air. The shouts come back, louder than ever, but Jory is already pulling him towards the car running at the curb. But the damage is done.

(He doesn’t really anticipate the blowback.)

***  
(Part of that blowback occurs in the car.)

But not until one of the security guards from the mall. who had drove the car up to meet them, leaves, and they exit the parking lot of the mall. Then and only then does Sansa dig into him.

“Are you insane?” She hisses. “That was the most idiotic thing you could have done!”

It takes Jon aback, as it was such a contrast to the way she had been trying to calm him down earlier, and he’s still a little numb, but that’s starting to fade, and it’s replaced by anger.

(Why the fuck was she mad at him?)

“Idiotic?” He snaps. “I was fucking defending you. He put his hands on you—”

“That doesn’t mean he deserves to be choked out!” She shouts.

“Uh, yeah.” Jon says. “That’s actually exactly what it means.”

“It wasn’t wise, Your Grace.” Jory sighs. “The king won’t be pleased.”

“Pleased?” He snarls. “I gotta say, I’m not too pleased at the moment, either. Where the fuck were you?”

“Jon.” Sansa says sharply, but he can’t back down. He won’t. At the thought of the whole situation, his anger just bubbles up all over again. The photographer, he had gotten to her so fucking easily. Way too easily. Where was his so called security?

“I was clearing a path for you, Your Grace.” Jory answers, and for the first time he looks a little uncomfortable. Good.

“You know? His job?” Sansa blazes. “That’s what it is. It isn’t to protect me—”

“It is when you’re with me.” He interjects heatedly. “Or it becomes my job. And that, out there, is what happens when it becomes my fucking job.”

“I apologize, Your Grace.”

“No– do not apologize, Jory. You did nothing wrong.” Sansa commands, when she turns back to Jon, she points an accusing finger at him, “Don’t put this on him. That’s not fair.”

“You’re right. It isn’t!” Jon shouts. “What about those guys in the back? Tom and Lem? Where the fuck were they?”

They were supposed to be at the back, they were supposed to be protecting the both of them too. Yet neither of them were near when this prick tried to grab Sansa.

“I’m not sure, Your Grace.”

“Did you pick those guys out yourself?”

“No–I swear.” Jory stammers. “I took who was offered to me, Your Grace.”

It’s not enough. Jon is cracking his knuckles, and he’s thinking of how scared she was before she left and the look in her eyes when that guy grabbed her arm. After all she had been through… It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

“I want them punished.”

“Are you serious right now?” Sansa gapes.

“Dead serious.” He says stonily. “They should have been there. Right there the whole time.”

“They can’t be everywhere at once.”

“There was two of them. They could have managed.”

“They were doing the best they could.”

Jon cannot find it in himself to sympathize. “If that was their best, they should have sent us different men.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Sansa fumes, and he doesn’t like the way she’s looking at him. Not at all. Like she doesn’t even know him.

“Am I?”

“You can’t lash out and blame everyone else because of a mistake you made—”

And that hurts.

Because she didn’t get it at all.

“I didn’t make any mistakes.” Jon states, trembling with anger.“Protecting you isn’t something I regret. You don’t know what I’ve seen. He could have tried to drag you off, or– these people have no shame. And it would have–”

He stops himself.

(It would have been my fault.)

Back in King’s Landing, there wasn’t any shortage of stalkers following them. There was a man that had been obsessed with Daenerys since she was 13, and because of it, she had four bodyguards accompany her everywhere. When they were fighting through the crowd downtown, once, a woman ripped the sleeve of Egg’s shirt off, after a riot ensued outside. Rhaenys got death threats every week from people who didn’t think it would be appropriate for a woman to ascend to the throne. The Targaryens had no shortage of enemies, and now, as Arya had reminded him, they were his enemies too.

If Sansa got hurt because of that, because of him–he’d never forgive himself.

“If being concerned over your safety and how easily it was compromised makes me ridiculous, then that’s fine with me.”

Jon hears a sharp intake of breath, but he tilts his head up to the ceiling if his car, squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see how she’s looking at him. His heart is still slamming in his chest from all the adrenaline, and that pressure is building, but in a different way this time. He knows that in an hour his phone will probably be ringing off the hook, and his father will be shouting at him about the optics of the situation and Rhaenys would be disappointed in him and Egg would try to make some joke to lighten the situation, and Jon wasn’t ready for any of it.

He just needed things to slow down.

The car ride feels like it lasts forever, but in reality, it’s only fifteen minutes—Jon knows this because Bronn has timed the route from the mall back to the Stark house. He opens his eyes, and finds paparazzi waiting snapping pictures at their car at the gate, but as soon as they’re inside, the chaos is left behind.

When the car rolls to a stop in the driveway, Jon opens the door, but Sansa grabs his other hand, pulling him back. He’s still not looking at her, still hasn’t seen her face, but he somehow knows what she’s asking him. Knows what she wants.

He bites on the inside of his cheek.

He closes the door.

“Could you give us a moment, Jory?” Sansa speaks up.

“Of course.” He answers immediately. He seems eager to please after the way Jon had chewed him out. He can’t even look him in the eye. It makes him feel bad, just a little. “I’ll go find Bronn.”

The gray Mazda was already parked in the driveway, so he was here, obviously. Jon didn’t have time to wonder where, because as soon as the door shuts behind Jory, he hears the metallic clicking of a seatbelt coming undone, and she’s coming closer, and closer–

He has to look.

She doesn’t look so angry, anymore. Her eyes aren’t glacial and her brow isn’t furrowed, and up close, he recognizes this look as the one she had given him in the dressing room at the Peach, and it freezes him. Makes his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth.

“I didn’t even bruise, you know.” Sansa says quietly, extending her right arm. “I think I hurt you more than he hurt me.”

She runs a finger over the inside of his elbow, where there were still nail indentations from her grip. He doesn’t even feel the soreness, just her skin against his.

“I’ll survive.” He mutters.

“That makes two of us.”

Jon opens his mouth, ready to argue that he didn’t know that at the time, and neither did she, but Sansa’s head finds his shoulder, and it shuts again.

There’s a minute of silence that passes, but it feels like more. Everything is on pause. There’s nothing, no photographers, no articles, no phone calls. It’s just her, head against his shoulder and thumb swiping against his knuckles and it’s the evening out of his heart rate; becoming steady again. The pressure in his chest starts to lessen. Lighten.

“I’m sorry.” She murmurs finally. “You weren’t being ridiculous. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Another apology.

He’s too shocked that he got it to speak again.

“I don’t have as much experience as you do when it comes to these things. I don’t know how bad it could have gotten.”

No, you don’t. Is what Jon really wants to say, but she’s already apologizing and that was enough for him. He also didn’t have the energy to fight again today, so he doesn’t say anything.

“But I still don’t think it was fair to blame it on Jory–”

“Sansa–” Jon begins with an exhale.

She sits up, grabbing his hand. “It’s not. He was doing the best he could. It’s not like I made it easy for him to arrange proper security by demanding an impromptu shopping trip—”

“What have I told you about blaming yourself?”

“I won’t blame myself if you won’t blame Jory.” Sansa replies, equally as stern. “This is his first big job. He’s probably beating himself up about it already. You don’t need to do it too.”

Jon wanted to ask her how she knew that, but he didn’t doubt that Sansa had asked him. She was just the type of person to do that. It was probably why Jory had taken to being so protective of her virtue around him. She made everyone fall in love with her.

He sighs, shaking his head helplessly. “Fine. I’ll apologize.”

“And the security guards? Tom and Lem?”

“What about them?”

“You aren’t really gonna get them fired, are you?”

Jory, he was fine with forgiving. It wasn’t that much of a bitter pill to swallow, as Jon had to acknowledge he truly was doing the best he could in his situation. But those security guards, they were the ones in the back. They were in charge of keeping the crowd back, and in the end, they didn’t.

“They probably have children to look after.” Sansa implores when he doesn’t answer. “Families to take care of. They didn’t know today was the day they’d be guarding a prince. Who knows if they’ve even had experience with such large crowds before?”

“So it’s nobody’s fault then?” Jon says, annoyed. He glares at her. “You could have been hurt. Something could have happened—”

“But it didn’t.” Sansa reminds him. “We’re fine. For the most part.”

It could have been different, though. That was what Jon was still stuck on. Still, he knew Sansa wasn’t wrong. Most of what happened was able to happen because of the lack of time they had for preparation, and their underestimation of the paparazzi. Mall security guards weren’t equipped to handle concert level crowds. They probably had tried their best, but it hadn’t been good enough.

He still can’t give a definitive answer. He’s still mad. So he just says: “I’ll think about it.”

It’s good enough for Sansa. She smiles. Maybe because she knows that he’ll do the right thing in the end, or maybe because convincing him was easier than she thought, but he doesn’t have time to sulk about that, because she leans in, lips puckering up against his cheek. It’s soft, barely there, and he almost thinks he imagined it.

Except he didn’t. She’s still sitting there, and she tells him, “Thank you.”

“For?” It’s the only thing Jon can think of to say, because his brain isn’t working fast enough to help him come up with something less dumb and more original.

“Taking me shopping. Helping me pick out my dress. I know you hate that kinda stuff.” She bites her lip, the ones that were just on his cheek.

(He really wishes she would stop doing that.)

Jon shrugs. “It wasn’t so bad.”

He had gotten proficient at sitting outside of dressing rooms over the summer. Rhaenys was always getting fitted for some event or luncheon or other, and sometimes it was the only time of the day they had to talk. Him and Egg would always sit on the couch, and tell her about how they chose to spend the day, while she’d lament about her court related troubles and promise to join them next time.

“Still.” Sansa ducks her chin, and it comes off a little shy. “And what you did back there… thanks.”

“It was nothing.”

(He knows that’s a lie.)

Too much could happen as a result. His father was gonna be pissed, surely, maybe even threaten to summon him back to King’s Landing, but once he explained the situation, once he got Rhaenys to soften him up a little, he’d be a little less pissed. Perhaps he’d even try Elia, although Jon knows it wouldn’t be fair to ask her for her help again.

“That man,” She frowns. “He could sue—”

“He could try.” Jon smiles wryly. “Haven’t you heard? I’ve got friends in high places.”

If there was one perk to this fucked up situation, it was that he wasn’t just anybody. As a prince, he could probably get away with murder, and what he had done to that dickhead hadn’t even been an eighth of that. Usually, using his position wouldn’t sit right with him, but he was going to suck it up and deal this time, because he sure as hell wasn’t paying that guy shit after what he did to Sansa.

“But the press.” She’s wringing her hands again “They’re gonna make everyone think the worst of you.”

“They already think the worst of me. What’s a few more rumors?”

That does nothing to appease her. Her frown only deepens, and she looks ready to lecture him some more, or list a thousand more horrible possibilities, but Jon stops her.

“It’ll be fine, Sans. I swear.” He knocks her knees with his own, trying to lighten the mood. “Stop worrying. It causes wrinkles.”

“Somebody has to do it.” Sansa rolls her eyes, but she pats her face, trying to stop herself from frowning even more. It makes him laugh, and she shoves him.

“Daddy’s not home.” She says, after taking a peek outside of the window. Ned’s car is not in the driveway. “We got pretty lucky with that.”

“You can say that again.” His stomach is twisting at the prospect of facing Ned, even though he knows it won’t be anywhere near as bad as facing his father. Ned would commend him for defending Sansa, probably even speak up for him when Rhaegar started asking questions, but he doesn’t feel like sitting through another lecture on how reckless it was.

“Maybe he doesn’t know.” Sansa tries for a hopeful, optimistic smile. “At least not yet.”

There’s a knock on the window, on his side. It’s Jory, looking just as abashed as he had when he left, and Bronn beside him. Jon opens the door. They both bow, but it’s Bronn who does the talking.

“Your godfather called, Your Grace.” He doesn’t look so amused now. “He saw the news, and Jory notified him of the situation.”

Sansa cringes, and Jon curses under his breath.

(So much for not knowing.)

“He’s ordered us to get you back to the manor immediately. You’ll have to stay there until all the press dies down.”

House arrest. Again. Jon scratches at his jaw roughly. He probably should have expected that. “Fine. Does my father know?”

And Bronn hesitates.

It’s such a clear, straightforward, yes or no question that doesn’t really call for any hesitation at all. Unless the answer isn’t something that he’ll wanna hear. Dread snakes down his spine.

“Is that a yes? A no?”

It’s Jory who speaks next. “We… we can’t reach him, Your Grace.”

“What?”

“I called him as soon as we got here. That’s protocol. Anytime a situation happens like this.” The words come out all in a rush. “But he didn’t answer, so I called Mr. Stark and told him what happened, and that the king wasn’t answering the phone, and he told me he’d try to reach him. I haven’t heard from him since.”

(What the fuck is going on?)

The last time he had talked to Rhaenys was the day before yesterday, and Egg had sent him some stupid meme at 2 in the morning and nothing else, but it wasn’t like that was unusual. They were fine, that he knew in his gut, but his father was a different story entirely. No matter how busy he was, he answered the phone every time Bronn and Jory called, which was often, as he was notified of every single one of Jon’s comings and goings. For the past month, he had been a helicopter parent of the worst kind, and the moment Jon screws up, really just fucks up, he’s nowhere to be found.

“Did you try my stepmother?” Elia was who everyone deferred to when Rhaegar wasn’t around, and Rhaenys after her.

“She wasn’t available either, Your Grace.” Bronn says.

Jon didn’t think it was a safety issue of any kind— it’d be all over the news, on every single blog and a trending google search. If something had happened to him, he would have known by now. Same with Elia. But the fact that neither of them were anywhere to be found in the face of a potentially harmful scandal–

It just meant they were dealing with a problem bigger than anything he could have caused.

“Is everything alright?” Sansa asks worriedly.

He takes out his phone. In two seconds, he could have Egg or Rain on the phone, and even Viserys would answer just because he knew that if Jon was calling it was definitely some kind of world ending emergency, but something stops him. If it concerned him, he would have been called already.

(He should probably just be thankful that the attention is off of him, at the moment, and leave it alone.)

“Don’t know.” Jon answers truthfully.

And did he even wanna know?

(Do I really wanna know?)

He makes his decision then, tucking his phone in his pocket.

(Maybe I’ll change my mind later.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gee, I wonder where Rhaegar and Elia went. What is going on with those two?
> 
> Favorite scenes/lines/characters? Drop a comment, I wanna hear them all! If it’s something you want me to see sooner rather than later, you can always talk to me @jeynesgreyjoy on tumblr. Don’t forget to vote on the poll on my Twitter!


	10. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 18 hours.
> 
> That is approximately how long Jon is left in uncertain limbo for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update came way earlier than expected, but you guys deserve it. Thanks to everyone who voted on the poll. The rockstar!jon/Notting Hill au won, so look out for Homemade Dynamite coming on Valentine’s Day. I’m so excited for you guys to read it!
> 
> Now, three things:
> 
> 1\. A little short. Like I said, this is actually the second half of chapter nine, because it was getting way too long for me. But don’t worry, a sizeable Sansa chapter will be next.
> 
> 2\. Angst ahead. Angst and some jonsa. I don’t think it ends on a bad note, but that’s for you guys to decide.
> 
> 3\. I’m supposed to be on hiatus but I can’t really seem to stop writing this story in my free time so I’m just gonna take advantage of that before I get randomly self conscious and abandon it skshdjs. 35 comments would be nice in exchange for ch.11 I’m really just trying to get to ch.13/14 because that’s what I’m excited for.
> 
> Enjoy this chapter!

**Jon**

18 hours.

That is approximately how long Jon is left in uncertain limbo for.

Bronn and Jory do not come to him with any orders from Rhaegar. Ned doesn’t call him anymore, just tells him to stay where he is. He spends the rest of the night doing homework that isn’t anywhere near due, and he falls asleep with his psych textbook on his chest, and phone in his hand. He had been debating on whether or not to call Rain and Egg, but he didn’t want to bring attention to himself. Maybe by the time Rhaegar was done dealing with whatever issue he had, he’d be too exhausted to be angry at Jon.

(It’s wishful thinking.)

(Wishful, stupid thinking.)

When Jon wakes up the next morning, something isn’t right.

Like it just feels wrong. Everything. The way the sun shines through the curtains and the way the white noise buzzes in his ear. He feels like he’s walking on cotton as he makes his way down the stairs, rubbing out his eyes. Even still, on the way to the kitchen table, he does not turn on the TV like he usually did to catch up on the news, nor did he check the notifications. He didn’t have to.

He _was_ the news.

“Afternoon, Jaehaerys.” Uncle Aemon greets serenely. He sits at the table, stirring oatmeal in shaky hands. Gilly is filling up his pill box.

Despite his blindness, he always knew exactly when Jon entered the room, and exactly when he left.

Jon double takes, checking the clock on the wall. It read 12:00. He grimaces. “Afternoon. Sorry. I didn’t mean to oversleep.”  


“That’s alright.” Aemon assures him, smiling. “You’ve been working yourself hard lately. It was well earned.”  


That didn’t ease any of Jon’s guilt. This was usually the only time they had together, and he always made sure to make the best of it. Aemon had been alone in this house with no one besides his staff for the last ten years, save for the holidays when he made his journey up to Dragonstone. He also had plenty of stories about their family, and his father in his youth. It was interesting, to get an insight on the man who didn’t show much of himself to the world.

(It felt like the only way Jon would ever get to know him.)

Jon opens the fridge, reaching for a water bottle. “How’d you sleep? See anymore dragons?”

Uncle Aemon always had the craziest dreams that he made Sam write about in detail in a journal. He was convinced they all meant something, symbolized something big. Gilly had pulled him aside eventually and told him it was the medication his doctor had him on.

They were still fun to hear about, though.

“I’m afraid not.” Aemon says, but he doesn’t sound too broken up over it. “But I did see what I believe to be a grumpkin, and he was quite pleasant.”

“Really?” Jon laughs. “How so?”

Uncle Aemon begins to tell his story about the nice grumpkin who helped him through the Wolfswood, and Jon is listening raptly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and uncapping his water bottle, but then his phone chirps out loud.

And then again.

And again.

And again.

_(Fuck.)_

He doesn’t need to pick up his phone and look at the screen to know his luck has probably run out. His stomach just clenches uncomfortably. He stares at the table for awhile, debating on whether he could get away with ignoring it. Aemon stops talking, and Jon rushes to turn the ringer off.

“Sorry, Uncle Aemon.” Jon apologizes quickly, but the his phone goes from ringing to vibrating. He takes it off the table.

“That’s okay.” Aemon says, and frowns concernedly. “Is everything alright?”  


_Not at all._

But Aemon didn’t know about the whole paparazzi scrap, and Jon definitely didn’t intend on telling him just yet. So he just lets out a laugh that sounds offkey in his own ears. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it.”

(If only he could do the same.)

Wiping his palms on the knees of his flannel pants beforehand, Jon picks up his phone. He scrolls through the Notification Center beforehand, trying to gauge just how dire the situation was.

Not as dire as he thought, truly.

It’s a bunch of text messages from the Starks. He couldn’t see what they said yet, but Arya and Robb’s were the most plentiful. Just as he’s about to click on them, several more texts come in succession, all from Egg. Jon’s stomach plummets, but he clicks on it all the same.

(He might as well get this over with.)

He has to scroll up, past paragraphs of heart eyes emojis, along with many suggestive eggplants that make him want to gag, until he sees _it._

It’s a screenshot from the Baelish Independent’s website, which was quickly becoming his least favorite source of news ever, with a headline that makes him want to die and a picture to match.

**Jon Snow assaults local paparazzi for getting handsy with his girlfriend**.

_(Girlfriend.)_

_(Girlfriend.)_

Jon chokes audibly.

And the picture.

The fucking _picture._ It’s a little damning. Maybe a lot, to those who didn’t understand the context of the situation. They’re walking out of the mall, hand in hand, moments before the alleged “assault” happens. He’s been seen walking with Arianne, Dany, and Rhaenys, but always with their arms linked, or they held onto his his upper arm. This was hand holding, which could have easily been overlooked if not for the way Sansa’s other hand wrapped around the inside of his arm. It looks intimate, and the way he’s standing in front of her is protective, and if he was being completely honest with himself, a 100% brutally honest, then he’d admit that it’d be a wonder how anyone looked at this picture and didn’t assume they were dating—

This is fucked.

This is _so_ fucked.

“Are you sure Everything is alright, Jon?” Aemon inquires, staring at him with those unseeing eyes. They still manage to have concern in them. “Are you feeling under the weather?”

Jon opens his mouth, flaps it shut, and continues the cycle until he can make his mouth work, and try to form some semblance of a coherent sentence. “Yep. Yes. I think—” He stammers. “I think I’m gonna go for a walk on the grounds. Just need some fresh air.”

“Of course.” Aemon nods in understanding, and smiles. “That should do you some good. As soon as I have finished, I think I’ll join you.”

“Sounds great.” Jon mumbles, or something to that effect as he stumbles out of the room jerkily, feeling Gilly’s eyes on his back the whole way through.

He doesn’t go far, just the gardens. Just until he’s certain that nobody can hear him scream, which he does. Loudly. A short, abrupt, what the fuck. And then another. And then he’s pacing, pacing the lengths of the garden and raking his hands through his hair as if that’ll help clear his head any.

It doesn’t.

Jon takes a deep breath.

(He could fix this.)

(He had to.)

He starts by going back through him and Egg’s texts, to the most recent ones that came a little less than ten minutes ago.

**Egg**

**_How is SHE dating YOU?_ **

**_Like…._ **

**_Did you trick her_ **

**_But with your lips_ **

**_Can you tell her I have way better lips than you_ **

**_Like just mention it in passing_ **

_Where did you get this?_

**_Yeah okay just IGNORE my very simple request._ **

**_I see the type of person you are._ **

_Egg._

**_The picture is everywhere, dumbass_ **

**_Like ALL over the news_ **

**_Just because you look like a caveman doesn’t mean you have to live like one_ **

**_I say that with love <33333333_ **

Everywhere. So not just the Baelish Independent. No wonder everyone was fucking blowing up his phone, mainly the Starks. No _wonder_ most of them had been from Arya and Robb. God, what were they thinking right now?

What was Sansa thinking right now?

There was only one way to find out.

Jon clicks on the messages, starting with the people who no doubt had the worst and potentially harmful reaction first. If there was anything he learned from his time in the capital, it was that damage control always had to happen immediately.

With his heart on his throat, he begins to read.

**Arya**

**_Jon_ **

**_Have u seen the news?_ **

**_It’s horrible_ **

**_Y do they insist on making up bullshit about ur personal life_ **

**_Dad’s pissed and talking about a slander lawsuit_ **

**_R u ok??????????_ **

**_Answer me_ **

**_Call me pls_ **

Arya didn’t believe it. She didn’t believe it for a second. Of course she didn’t. Ned didn’t either. Jon is so relieved he could faint. At least he didn’t have to worry about her. But when he reaches Theon’s texts, trepidation begins to build and his palms get sweaty all over again, because first of all, he didn’t even know Theon still had his number and second of all, what the hell did they have to talk about?

He reads them anyway.

**Theon**   


**_LMFAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO_ ** **_  
  
_**

**_U DIRTY ASS BASTARD_ ** **_  
  
_**

**_THIS EXPLAINS SO MUCH_ ** **_  
  
_**

What the fuck was that even supposed to mean?

Jon decides he’d rather run across hot coals than think about the possibilities any longer. He doesn’t have time for Theon and his crackheaded tendencies, or to make sense of the usual bullshit spouting out of his mouth. So just to get the echo of “this explains so much” out of his mind for good, he hurriedly scrolls to him and Robb’s conversation.

**Robb**

  
**_Dude Theon’s playing the most fucked up prank on me_ **

**_  
_ ** **_He’s trying to convince me you and Sansa are dating LOL_ **

**_  
_ ** **_Wait_ **

**_  
_ ** **_Why is the entire country convinced you and Sansa are dating......_ **

**_  
_ ** **_???????????_ **

**_  
_ ** **_HELLO?!?!?!!_ **

_(Shit.)_

_(Shit.)_

_(Shit.)_

Knowing Theon, he probably blew things _way_ out of proportion, which is probably why he has several missed calls and a bunch of texts reiterating the different ways Robb would dismember Jon for touching his little sister. He is contemplating just how best to locate Theon and strangle the shit out of him when his phone vibrates again, this time, with several texts from Bran.

**Bran**

**_Heard your dating my sister….LIT_ **

**_I ship it ;)_ ** **_  
  
_**

**_#Son_ ** **_  
  
_**

**_No wait_ ** **_  
  
_**

**_#Jonsa_ **

Jon’s face heats up and he’s never clicked out of a conversation faster in his whole life. He knew Bran was definitely kidding, because this would be something that bothered the shit out of Arya, and Bran loved nothing more than bothering the shit out of Arya. Or is he serious?

Could he be _serious?_

Jon is just about to text him that no, he doesn’t need to ship it or whatever the fuck that meant, because they _weren’t_ dating, and it wasn’t funny to joke around like that at all, when Rickon sends him a Snapchat video. Jon opens it to find his camera zooming in on the flatscreen in the living room back at the Stark house, where the same picture of Jon and Sansa was blown up on the screen for the news. Rickon is laughing hysterically, wheezing, and when he turns the camera on himself, Jon sees him gasping for breath, tears streaming down his face, and he isn’t going to _lie_ —

It aggravates him.

Was it really that unbelievable that someone like Sansa would date him?

Or was it just unbelievable that _Sansa_ herself would?

(Jon doesn’t want to know the answer.)

(The answer doesn’t even fucking matter.)

It’s not like he could ask her himself, anyway. Sansa is radio silent, too. She has not sent him one text about her face being plastered on the front of every news publication in the country. With the way she had acted at the sight of the paparazzi, she’s probably beyond pissed at him because of it. She probably doesn’t even wanna look at him.

_(Fuck.)_

Jon still has no clue what to do, he is still typing and deleting and retyping different variations of the same paragraph to Robb. (Something along the lines of: No I’m not dating your sister, she kissed me and I kissed her back, but that was fake. I also haven’t been able to stop thinking about kissing her, but that’s okay because I never do, and she’s madly in love with some asshole named Loras. Please don’t castrate me.) When his phone rings.

Egg.

He’s never answered a phone so quickly in his life.

“You _have_ to fix this.” He blurts into the phone, wincing at the crack in his voice.

Egg barks out a laugh, sounding far too amused at the situation. “Do I?”

“ _Yes._ ” Jon hisses, and then bites his lip in an effort to restrain himself. “Sansa— they think me and Sansa are dating.”   


“You _are_.” Egg replies bemusedly.

As far as his family knew. Jon nearly forgot about that. He quickly amends himself. “They can’t know that. Nobody can. We’re not ready to tell everyone yet. Don’t you have something you can do?”

Egg must hear it his voice, the sheer desperation because he sighs, almost pityingly. His voice loses some of its condescension. “I mean… I can try. But honestly, Jon, Dad would be the best person to go to about this. He could get Varys to pull some strings. I know he’s not your favorite person, but he has better options.”  


Jon rubs at his forehead, patience finally snapping for the first time that morning. It was typical, that the one time he actually needed his father around, wanted him around, he was nowhere to be found. “Yeah, well if I knew where the fuck he was…”

“What do you mean?”  


It’s a genuine question that makes Jon doubletake. A serious one too. How did Egg of all people not know he was missing? Did that mean Rain didn’t know either? Or Viserys?

Did that mean something serious had happened to him?

“He didn’t call me to chew me out about the whole paparazzi thing. My bodyguards tried to reach him, and they couldn’t. Apparently, they aren’t at liberty to say.” Jon says.

Egg hums. “Weird.” He ultimately doesn’t sound to broken up or worried about it though, so Jon takes that as a sign to relax. But he still has to ask:

“How don’t you know this?”  


“I’m not in King’s Landing. I’m on a flight to Yi Ti to act as an ambassador for our lovely country.” Egg drawls. But then he brightens. “I have a layover in Astapor soon, though. Daenerys is meeting me for lunch. I haven’t bullied in her in ages, and I’m having withdrawals.”  


Jon can’t help but snort, despite it all. “I’m glad you’ll have someone to torture again.”

Egg laughs too, but it fades. When he speaks again, he sounds thoughtful. Almost intrigued. “He doesn’t usually disappear like this, you know. Did you try my mother? She probably knows where he is.”  


Jon sighs. “Can’t get a hold of her either.”   


“What?”

And this—

This concerns him.

All traces of humor are gone, even the laziness in the way he speaks. He sounds like he’s on edge, on alert, and it causes Jon to do the same. He feels something cold trickle down his spine. Had something been wrong and he ignored it?

“She’s MIA too. They said she wasn’t available. Is that bad?” He feels stupid asking, and even more childish when he repeats the question because Egg doesn’t deign him an answer. “Egg? Is it… is that bad? What’s going on?”

“I couldn’t reach her earlier, just thought that she was probably busy or something. She always calls me back.” He mutters, sounding dazed. In disbelief. “But she hasn’t. She hasn’t.”

And again, Jon is hit with that feeling that something isn’t right.

“Egg–”

The phone goes dead abruptly, and he’s left wondering what it all means.

***

Unlike last time, Jon doesn’t wait.

He has to do _something._

He has Jory call the secureline Rhaegar has assigned them multiple times, leaving a message on each. He goes through two cigarettes while they question his staff, who elusively evade all of their interrogation techniques with “His Grace is tending to matters that require strict confidence,” and a whole bunch of other bullshit. He calls Egg a few more times, but it just goes straight to voicemail, but he doesn’t bother Rain, because he figures that’s what Egg is probably doing at the moment. Surely after he was done, he’d call Jon with some answers.

An hour passes.

Two hours.

(He doesn't.)

Finally, he can’t take it anymore. He dials his sister’s number. She answers on the first ring, and Jon lets out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

“Did Egg put you up to this?” This is what he receives in lieu of a greeting, an accusation. All sharp prickly. Not at all the Rain he usually talked to. It takes him aback,

Something _is_ really wrong.

“N-No.” Jon stammers. “Swear.”

“Oh.” Rhaenys sighs, and her tone softens the tiniest bit. “Sorry. He’s just been calling me nonstop.”  


He knew he was partly to blame for that, and as much as he didn’t want to tell her, she had a right to know. “Uh, that’s probably because—”  


“I know why he’s calling.” She interrupts swiftly. “I know why.”  


She does.

Jon can hear it in her tone, the way it wavers a little at the beginning, but finds its resolve towards the end. Somehow, it just confirms for him that she knows exactly what’s going on. And because his conscience won’t allow him to do any less, he has to ask: “Then what’s going on?”

And Rhaenys breaks.

His sister, the strongest person he knew, the best person he knows, just starts sobbing and it cuts him like nothing else, because he’s all the way out here and she’s down there, and there’s no way that he can help her. And even if he did, he had no clue how.

“This is all my fault. All of it.”  


“It isn’t. None of this is your fault.” Jon says automatically, although he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. He didn’t need to. He knew Rhaenys was always hard on herself, more than anyone.

“It is.” Rhaenys argues, sniffling. “Egg has gone ballistic, and Daddy can’t even look at me and Mama—”  


She stops just short of finishing the sentence. Hiccups. She says nothing, just continues to take unsteady breaths that do nothing but make her cry even more. It’s like she can’t bear to finish the sentence.

Rhaegar was okay then, wherever he was, whatever mysterious shit he was doing, he was fine. And mad at Rhaenys. His golden child. The one he had doted on since birth and groomed to take his stead. Rhaenys, who had never done a thing wrong in her life. And this shot with Elia, whatever was going on there, it was enough to send Egg off the rails.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” Jon pleads. At the very least so he can help. After all she had done for him, there was no way Rhaenys was dealing with this alone. He’d fly back to King’s Landing if he had to.

“I can’t.” She sniffles brokenly. “You’re gonna hate me.”  


“I could never hate you.” Jon says, voice cracking a little. “Never.”

(What was she talking about?)

“You will. Most of all.”  


Something hard hits him right in the gut.

_(What did you do?)_

Before Jon can even think of an answer to that, there’s footsteps. He turns around to find Jory approaching with a phone held out, head ducked. He walks like he’s on stilts, and looks like he’s on edge. When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“Your Grace.” Jory bows. “It’s the king. He’d like a word.”

That would have been nice to hear ten minutes ago, but at the moment, Jon couldn’t give two fucks. Something was wrong with Rain, and he had to find out what. Just as he’s about to tell him that, he hears her croak:

“This was stupid. Forget I said anything.”  


“Rain—” Jon begins, lump in his throat forming, but she hangs up. He’s left with more questions than he called with.

(He’s not so sure he wants to know the answers anymore.)

***

Once he takes the phone from Jory’s hand, Jon marches back into the house and upstairs to his room. He had a feeling this conversation was about to sour his mood in the worst possible way, as every conversation with his father did, and he didn’t want it to sully his view of the landscape outside. “Hello?”  


“Hello.” Rhaegar says the word the way most people would say axe murderer. “That’s all you have to say for yourself, Jaehaerys?”  


“What else do you want me to stay?” Jon had been prepared to do some serious damage control earlier with his father, soothe his ego a little, but now he had no interest in such thing. Not after talking to Rain and hearing her cry. Not after knowing their father was most likely the cause.

“Starting with an explanation would be nice.” He hisses.

Playing dumb seemed like the best route to go, in order to gauge just how much he knew. And Jon wasn’t in a cooperative mood. “I’m not allowed to go shopping?”

“It’s not about going shopping, and you know it.” Rhaegar bites out through a clenched jaw. “It’s about who you went with.”  


He doesn’t like this.

He doesn’t like this at all.

“What about Sansa?”   


“Cersei Baratheon is talking about charges again. Says you intended to assault her son from the moment you met as revenge.”

“What?”

He had thought this shit was _over._ Yet here it was, being dredged up again. Rhaegar hadn’t scared her enough? Why the hell was she reopening the issue? A month after it happened? After they already reached an agreement?

“That’s _ridiculous_ .”   


“No, actually, it isn’t. Considering your rumored girlfriend used to date Joffrey.”  


Jon swears the world stops spinning for a second.

“Sansa? Sansa dated Joffrey?”

“Who else?” Rhaegar sneers.

Joffrey was the one.

Joffrey was the Boyfriend in King’s Landing. He was the one that had made her life a living hell afterwards, and spread all those rumors about her, nearly turned the entire school against her. He was the one that hurt her, took that innocence away. Convinced her that nobody could protect her, and certainly not from him. Jon feels his blood begin to boil.

“You didn’t know?” Rhaegar sounds like he doesn’t believe him.

Jon does not say anything. He is too ashamed of the answer.

(I should have killed him when I had the chance.)

“That doesn’t matter.” The way Rhaegar says it, so dismissively, so tiredly, makes Jon’s fists clench. Because it _did_ matter. “She has too much evidence to the contrary, and because of that, she might have Tywin behind her this time.”   


He closes his eyes, contemplates punching the wall just to hit something. It would never be enough, because none of it would be Joffrey and his stupid face, and he knows that once he starts, he won’t be stopping. Jon cracks his knuckles instead, managing to mutter, “Evidence?”

“You were lurking in the shadows when you just so happened upon the boy.” Rhaegar emphasizes. “You guys disappeared from the party around the same time. The way you beat him up—”  


“The way I beat him up?” Jon snarls, _furious._ How convenient it was that Cersei was painting him as some violent delinquent, knowing her son had a mean streak miles wider than one he could ever have. Of _course_ she’d fail to mention why he’d be so vengeful. “That wasn’t even half of what he deserved–”

“And now this incident with the press.” Rhaegar breaks in stonily. “You nearly choked a man out for touching the girl—”  


It’d be a cold day in all of the seven hells the day Jon apologized for that. He wasn’t sorry, and never would be. “He grabbed Sansa out of nowhere. He could have hurt her—”

“That’s _not_ the point.” Rhaegar’s voice cuts through his argument like steel, raising slightly. Jon cannot help but fall silent. It was a rare occasion whenever he raised his voice, and it never failed to make him shiver a little.

When he speaks again, it’s after a deep exhale, and his voice is deadly soft.

“I do not need this right now, Jaehaerys. I have millions of eyes watching me at all times, my country is in shambles, I’m chasing my wife across the globe—”  


Rhaegar cuts himself off sharply, exhaling again. Except it’s a little more unsteady.

“I don’t _need_ this.”   


(—chasing my wife across the globe)

Elia is gone.

She had left. Just up and disappeared, and Rhaegar was looking for her. That was where he had been yesterday, trying to find her. She clearly hadn’t told anyone about it, not even Egg, but Rhaenys? She had said the whole thing was her fault, that their father couldn’t even stand to look at her. But what could she have possibly done to warrant that? If anything, it was Jon’s fault.

It’s all his fault.

If he had just stayed there, stayed where the fuck he was, there’d be a few less scandals. Elia and Rhaegar’s marriage wouldn’t be on display for everyone to examine, maybe she wouldn’t have left if she didn’t know about his existence. He knows that Rain wouldn’t be crying right now, and Egg’s world wouldn’t be falling apart before his eyes.

Jon swallows. “I’m sorry.”  


Rhaegar just sighs tiredly.

“Please, just _please_ tell me you haven’t destroyed our relationship with the prime minister over a teenage girl’s broken heart.”   


Any guilt Jon felt in the moment completely vanishes. He snaps, “Fuck you.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

The coldness in his voice does not deter him. He’s too angry. Too filled with rage to back down. He repeats, “Fuck you. Gods, I already told you I didn’t know at the time of the party, but I wish I did. I do. I would have killed him. What he did to her— he doesn’t deserve to _breathe_.”

“What did he do?”  


Jon struggles to breathe deeply, so that his heart will slow the fuck down and stop beating so loud in his ears. “What?”

“The indiscretions you speak of that he committed against Ned Stark’s daughter.” He doesn’t sound so angry anymore, not as much as he is contemplative. “We might be able to use that to scare them away from talking about charges.”  


_(Fuck.)_

“No.” Jon says immediately.

“No?” Rhaegar repeats, as if he had never heard the word before.

“I’m _not_ using her like that.”

He wouldn’t.

Sansa had said it herself. She wanted to move on from it, she just wanted things to get back to normal, and from what Arya told him, he knew she had worked hard to do that. He wasn’t going to hurt her, make her dredge up the past again just for his own gain. Never.

“ _This_ is the position you’ve put us in.” Rhaegar reminds him, tone scathing. “Put yourself in. We don’t really have much of a choice here. Do you want your name to be dragged through the mud in court? In trial?”   


Our name. That’s what he really wants to say, and Jon knows it. It was never really about him, but he didn’t care. Jon couldn’t care less about ruining the family name, especially if it was at the cost of her. He didn’t care. “That’s fine. I can take it.”  


It’s selfish of him, he knows.

Rhaegar knows it too. That is when he snaps, “This isn’t just about _you_ .”   


Jon refuses to back down. Not when the price was so high. “You’re right. It’s about _Sansa_ , too. That’s her name, in case you didn’t know it. And she’s not some bargaining chip you can use when it’s convenient— she’s a person. She _matters_ to me—”

He stops himself short, feeling his voice creep higher and higher with every word. Finally, he just says, “It’s her business, not yours. I’m not putting her through that.”  


Rhaegar is silent for a moment.

It’s filled with many things. Jon almost thinks that’s enough to deter him, enough to get him talking about another solution, but it isn’t, because when he speaks again, his voice is even colder.

“I could summon you back to King’s Landing now. If Cersei and Tywin decide to go on with this, I don’t really have a choice.”

Jon should have seen that coming.

But he still doesn’t care.

“That’s fine. I’ll do what I have to do.”   


Rhaegar makes a sound of disgust at the back of his throat, and sneers. “You’re a fool.”   


And then he hangs up.

***

“Your godfather would like a word, Your Grace.”

Jon’s just finished with his six mile run, the spontaneous one he took immediately after he got off the phone with his father, when Jory approaches him. If he sat around for any longer he was gonna start punching things, and if he was too tired to think, then he was too tired to think about Elia, and Rhaenys, and Sansa. She still hadn’t called him. Texted him. He still had no idea what she was thinking.

And now he has a chance to find out.

(He’s not really sure if he wants to.)

Jon wipes at his forehead with the bottom of his shirt. He knows the answer to the question he’s about to ask, but he needs to ask if anyway. “Do you have him on the phone?”

Bronn is the one who tells him, “He’s invited you over for dinner, Your Grace.”

_(Shit.)_

“Yeah.” Jon says, suddenly very tired, and scrubbing st his face. “Whatever. I’ll just shower and then we can leave.”

***

  


Jon doesn’t know what to expect on his way to the Stark house.

But the fucking paparazzi lingering at the gate, that’s a given. So is the way they go into a frenzy at the sight of a nondescript black car with tinted windows. He had been dealing with the anticipation forming into a knot at the center of his chest for the last hour, so the way his fingers tremble when he’s unlocking the door isn’t out of nowhere— although the look that Bronn gives him makes him feels embarrassed.

He doesn’t know _what_ he’s expecting—

But it’s definitely not for things to be fucking normal.

Bran and Rickon are playing some video game on the couch, shoving each other, and cursing, and Arya is curled up in the chair, typing away furiously in his phone. Soft classical music plays from the kitchen, and the sink runs, a surefire sign that Nan was preparing dinner. Osha doesn’t even blink at him, just nods, and continues carrying a basket full of Rickon’s laundry upstairs. Sansa isn’t anywhere to be found, but for a second, Jon believes that he’s overreacting, that everything is fine, until—

He sees Ned’s office door.

It’s _closed._

That never happened, unless he wasn’t there, or it was serious. Jon could see that he was there, clearly, as the light was on and he could see the faintest form of a shadow, but he doesn’t have time to analyze the other because a voice breaks into his thoughts.

“Jon. Finally.”

Arya rushes forward, and hugs him. Hard. He hugs her back, absurdly grateful that she isn’t throwing things at him. The sound of machine guns stops, and Rickon and Bran turn to face both of them on the couch, wearing matching shit eating grins.

“Look who it is. Sansa’s boyfriend.” Bran croons, pretending to fan himself.

Rickon cackles, and then starts making kiss and slurping noises at him. Jon wonders just exactly how red his face was at the moment, considering now all he could think of was the kiss he and Sansa _had_ shared. He opens his mouth, not having any clue what to say, but Arya swoops in and saves him.

“Not now.” She snaps, glaring. Bran and Rickon roll their eyes, exchanging looks, but eventually turn around again. Once they’re back to shoving at each other, Arya speaks again, quick and low so only they can hear.

“You okay?” Her dark eyes are soft with concern.

“Yeah.” Jon reassures her. She knows he’s lying though, and her eyes narrow. He quickly forces himself to relax, sound more nonchalant and not like he was two seconds away from spontaneously combusting. He jabs a thumb at the office door. “Ned’s in there?”

“Waiting for you.” She confirms, chewing on her thumbnail.“I told him you and Sansa weren’t dating, but I don’t think he ever believed it in the first place, so I think it’s something else.”  


“Oh.” Jon has a good idea of what that something else was.

What if he was being sent back to King’s Landing?

It was a definite possibility. He had pissed Rhaegar off well and good today. It was exactly what he threatened to do if Jon didn’t cooperate, and he had called his bluff.

But what if it wasn’t a bluff?

(It takes Jon less than two seconds to decide that it wouldn’t matter.)

“What’s this about?” Arya frowns.

“Don’t worry about it.” The last thing Jon needed was her blaming Sansa for it all. He punches her in the arm. “Be right back.”

Again, Jon doesn’t know _what_ to expect to see behind that door, but he does have a few ideas. A few things he braces himself for.

Sansa is not one of them.

She’s standing in front of the desk, arms crossed over her chest. At the sight of him, her eyes find the floor quickly, and she brushes past him to exit. It takes everything in him not to reach out for her, because that look she gave him, however brief it was, scared him. Even more than whatever fate awaited him now. What was she even doing here? Arya said Ned didn’t believe the rumors. Was he getting her side of the story on what happened yesterday with the paparazzi? What reason did she have to be there?

Whatever it is, it’s not good.

(She hates me.)

(Gods, she hates me.)

As soon as the door clicks shut behind her, it’s Ned who breaks the silence between them first. “Your father called.”  


He gestures to a chair, and although Jon doesn’t much feel like sitting, he also knows better than to refuse Ned, so he takes it. “I expect so.”

“I just–” Ned sighs, taking his glasses off and rubbing at his eyes frustratedly. “Joffrey Lannister? Of all people to make an enemy out of? Him, Jon? Really?”  


Jon does not bother with any excuses, because none of them were going to save him at the moment. Instead, he lowers his head. “I know, I shouldn’t have. I lost control.”  


“I’m not here to reprimand you.” Ned says, even though it looks like he’d very much like to. “The king… He already explained the circumstances. How what happened at the mall yesterday put you in a difficult situation, and presented a solution—”

“I told him no.” Jon interjects, fists clenched. What the hell was wrong with him? He _told_ him to find a way, stopped short of begging him. And now he did this? Went behind his back and tried to convince Ned? It was low. So fucking low.

“I know. So did I.” A muscle in Ned’s jaw ticks.“Sansa did not.”  


“ _What_?”

He stands up so fast his chair nearly falls back. His breathing is ragged and uneven in his own ears, he’s grinding his jaw so hard he could crack a tooth.

Ned sighs, like he had anticipated a reaction like this.“I got a little… frustrated while talking to the king. Sansa overheard, and the king talked to her, told her the trouble you were in, and she agreed.”  


He told her.

He fucking _told_ her.

And of course she’d feel obligated to help him. That was just the type of person she was, but she shouldn’t have had to. She wasn’t some bargaining chip. She wasn’t some _tool._

“He shouldn’t have—”

“No. He shouldn’t have.”  


Jon sees it in the way his eyes harden that he feels the same, and he knows that if _both_ of them pressed Rhaegar, he’d back down. He wouldn’t have to use her, and they’d find some other way, or he would, alone if he had to. But they couldn’t make her go through this again.

_She_ couldn’t make herself go through this again.

Ned’s next words deflate any hope he had left swelling. “It worked exactly like he said it would.” Cersei and the Prime Minister have backed off. No court. No settlements. That’s it.”  


Except it wasn’t it. Not at all.

Because a month ago, Sansa had confided in him how she had worked so hard to move on, how it was still hard to not be stuck on the past. And here he was, dredging it all back up again for her to deal with.

(She _should_ hate him.)

(It’s nothing less than he deserves.)

“Your father figured it’d be better for me to deliver the news.” Ned says.

“Yeah.” Just about 24 hours ago, he’d been concerned over where his father was, and now he’d do anything to send him back. Jon grits his teeth.

“Bet he did.”

***

Jon just needs a minute.

One fucking minute.

He leaves the study without another word, not even a dismissal. Arya isn’t there waiting for him, and he takes advantage of that. Despite feeling Bran and Rickon’s eyes on his back the whole way, he storms outside, slamming the door shut. His hands fumble for his pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket, but his hands are shaking so bad from anger that he can’t even spark up his lighter. He shoves them back into the pocket of his leather jacket, and sits down on the edge of a pool chair, head falling into his hands.

(He’d kill for things to just go back to normal.)

Distantly, Jon hears the door creak open, and close back again. He knows it’s probably Arya. He doesn’t really have the strength to pretend that he’s fine right now. There’s the sound of light footsteps, and when she sits beside him, it’s lavender he smells.

Jon stiffens, but finds the courage to sit up.

She’s sitting so close to him their shoulders are brushing. Her knees are pulled to her chest, and her body is hunched slightly—

  


“You shouldn’t be out here.” Jon chides. “It’s freezing.”

She’s only wearing this baby blue, long sleeved sweater, but it kind of defeats the purpose of it all because it’s sheer, and cropped at the stomach. He watches the small tremor go through her shoulders, barely noticeable. But still, she shakes her head.

“It’s not that cold.”

Jon shakes his head, sighing exasperatedly.

He shrugs out of his own leather jacket, and drapes it around her shoulders. Sansa nearly protests, but he shows her the hoodie he’s wearing underneath, and it appeases her enough. She wraps the jacket around her shoulders, whispering a soft thanks. Jon doesn’t say anything. There are so many things that he wants to say, but can’t figure out how to.

Sansa breaks the tension first.

“You didn’t tell me you beat up Joffrey.”  


Her voice is soft, slightly accusing, but mostly in shock. Jon wants to tell her that he didn’t tell anyone, couldn’t, but he doesn’t think it would make much of a difference.

“You didn’t tell me you knew Joffrey.”  


(If he knew about it all, he would have told her.)

(No matter what.)

Her shoulders curl inwardly, defensively. It makes him regret the words. “I didn’t think it was relevant.”  


“Me either.”

Sansa looks down at her shoes, scuffing them against the concrete. This ensuing silence is longer than the last, and finally, Jon can’t really take it anymore, so he just comes out and _says_ it, barely above a whisper:

“I wish you wouldn’t have done that back there.”   


Sansa turns to face him. Her eyes begin to harden, right in front of him, and her lips are pressed into a thin line. Her jaw sets. “Done what? Saved your ass?”  


That didn’t _matter._ None of it mattered, if this was the price.“He was _using_ you, Sansa. He was using what happened to you as blackmail–”   


“You don’t think I know that?” Sansa shoots back. “I’m not _stupid_ . I knew what he was doing. I know what he had to do.”   


He didn’t know what the hell Rhaegar told her, what sob story he sold to make her so willing, but it makes Jon sick, and it makes him want to punch something. He moved to get up and get some space, because fuck, he needed another minute, Sansa grabs him by the inside of his elbow to stop him.

(It works.)

(It always works.)

“You needed help.” Sansa insists. “You needed _my_ help.”   


That didn’t make it okay.

That didn’t make any of this okay.

Gods, she sure sure as hell didn’t look okay right now. Her face is chalk white and her shoulders are hunched, like she’s trying to make herself look smaller, and she couldn’t meet his eyes before but she was staring at him now. She looked determined, but a little unsure too, a little bit lost–

And it was because of him. All of it.

“You’re seriously mad at me?”

Her voice cracks a little, and she starts to pull away, but Jon stops her, staying her hand on his arm. As much as he felt like he didn’t deserve to touch her right now. Didn’t even deserve to be near her, he doesn’t think he can take her pulling away either.

“I’m not mad at you.” He murmurs, squeezing her hand. I’m mad at him. I told him not to bring you into this.”  


“I was going to be brought into this whether you liked it or not.” Sansa argues, but there’s not really any steel behind the words. She just sounds tired. “Maybe if we hadn’t been seen together in public, or if I hadn’t been dumb enough to fall for Joffrey–”

“Stop.” Jon interrupts, maybe a little too harshly because Sansa stiffens. To soften his words a little, he pulls her closer to him, taking her face in his hands so she can hear what he’s saying. Hear that he means it.

“Baby, none of this is your fault.”

Sansa doesn’t look so convinced. She just sighs heavily, and shakes her head.

“I’m the one who lost control with Joffrey. I let him get under my skin. I’m the reason I’m in this mess, not you.” Jon says, softly, but firmly. “You shouldn’t have had to get me out of it.”

“I did.” She says.

“You didn’t–” Jon begins.

She rolls her eyes, grabbing his wrists. “I _wanted_ to. It’s okay to need help sometimes. You don’t have to do everything alone.”

And he forgets for a moment.

Where they are. Why they’re here in the first place. His anger and guilt begins to subside, and so does everything else. All he knows is her cheek leaning into his hand, and her words, words that make everything a million times worse because it’s what he’d been trying to tell her all along, and worst of all, she means it—

_(I wanted to.)_

_(You don’t have to do everything alone.)_

Jon pulls back, clasping his hands together to keep him from touching her again. “It shouldn’t have been at that cost.”

“It wasn’t so bad.” Sansa mumbles, pulling her legs to her chest, resting her chin atop of her knees. “He offered to help me in return.”

Help?

Jon didn’t like the sound of that.

She must see that in his face, because she sighs, before continuing. “He offered me some of his lawyers. Said he’d pay for it. Just in case I wanted to fight. For it go somewhere.”

Jon doesn’t understand.

This was the most dangerous thing he could have done, offering his own help in aid against Tywin Lannister’s family. He had just been yelling at him for damaging their relationship with him hours ago, and now he was doing the equivalent of dropping a fucking nuke on them. And why? For revenge? But then it wouldn’t make sense to lend Sansa his own lawyers that were publicly associated with him. The blowback on him would be just as monstrous, and so would the scandal. Could it be that he actually wanted to help her? That he actually felt bad for putting her in this position, and offered her something in return.

Jon doesn’t know what to think.

“I wanted to before,” Sansa says, pressing her lips into a thin line. “But then Joffrey started spreading those rumors about me, and I didn’t think we could win, and I just wanted him to leave me alone—”

She stops herself, running her hands through her hair. She turns toward him. “I don’t know. But I have a good chance now, if I wanted to. your father gave me that option.”  


Jon hears that silent “so don’t be so hard on him,” at the end of her sentence that her tone implied, because even when people took advantage of her, she still gave them the benefit of the doubt, but he deliberately ignores that. He pushes all suspicions of his father from his head. This was about Sansa. This was about her doing something huge. “That’s good. That it’s an option, I mean.”

“Yeah,” She pushes her arms through the sleeves of his jacket finally, so it’s not just acting as a makeshift blanket.“I just don’t know.”

“That’s okay.” Jon says softly. “You don’t have to right now.”

“I know.” Sansa sighs. “It’d be nice to know, though.”

Jon opens his mouth, to say what? He doesn’t know. Nothing he says is gonna help her. Make anything easier. He closes it again. He’s never felt more helpless in his life.

Sansa moves to stuff her hands in the pocket of his jacket, and comes up with his carton of cigarettes. She raises her eyebrows, holding the box up in question. He blushes, moving to grab them but she smirks, holding them out of his reach.

“Naughty, naughty.” She chides teasingly, eyes sparkling. “I didn’t know you smoked still.”

He’d done a good job of keeping it under wraps while he had been staying here. Jon frowns, reaching for the box again, but Sansa only giggles and holds them further out of his reach. He can’t get to them without practically getting on top of her.

“I didn’t know it was any of your business.” He huffs, slightly irritated but more embarrassed.

“No need to get nasty.” Sansa pouts, but he can tell from the way her eyes sparkle that she’s still amused. She opens up the carton, dislodging a cigarette. She takes out his lighter too.

Jon _gapes_. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” She mumbles around the cigarette in her mouth. She attempts to spark up the lighter but fails miserably. It doesn’t deter her. “Participating in teenage mischief.”

Jon snatches the lighter from her hands, catching her off guard. “Your dad would _kill_ me.”

“I’m 18.” Sansa scoffs, taking the cigarette out of her mouth, “Legally an adult. He can’t tell me what to do. And what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

She says it so primly, so matter of factly, that Jon laughs in disbelief, because it contrasts the small act of rebellion she was trying to commit now.

“What happened to the little girl who used to tell me not to smoke because I’d get lung cancer?”

She had caught him, Robb, and Theon once, way before they used their brains and decided the basement would be a better place to experiment. She nagged their ear off for an entire week after that, and every time she smelled smoke on one of them.

Sansa’s cheeks turn pink. “I’m not little anymore. Are you gonna help me or not?”

Jon doesn’t even pretend to consider it. “Not.”

“C’mon.” She whines, pouting. “I mean, would you rather me just go downtown and take some meth?”

“You don’t _take_ meth.” He laughs.

“That’s not the point.” She scowls. “What I’m saying is I could smoke right here, with you, where I’m safe, or I could do it with a stranger, who’d probably give me something laced with heroin. Do you really want to be responsible for my overdose?”

While he knows Sansa wouldn’t be foolish enough to do something like that he also knows that there was still a chance, considering how spiteful she was. If he didn’t just let her do this now, she wouldn’t let it go, and would find a way to do it later. It was better she just got the experience over now.

Jon lets out a long suffering sigh, and reluctantly leans close, holding up the lighter. Sansa brightens, sticking the cigarette between her lips again. It takes him two tries to spark up a flame. Satisfied, she leans back and takes a drag. Entirely way too curious, he watches.

Sansa’s face contorts into an expression of utter revulsion and she starts coughing. Jon snickers, but pats her onthat back in an effort to get it all out. When she’s done, she glares at him, pushing him away. He laughs even harder.

“That was disgusting.” Sansa scrunches up her nose, rubbing at her throat. She all but shoves the cigarette into his hands.

“It’s an acquired taste.” Jon admits, taking a drag himself. She was wearing lip gloss, but not the cherry kind she had been wearing in the car that day. Cotton candy, he thinks, placing the flavor belatedly. He tries his best to ignore it.

They lapse into silence for a moment, nothing but the sound of him exhaling smoke and the wind blowing. He looks over at her, hoping to be able to tell what she could possibly be so lost in thought about from the look on her face, but he just finds her with her legs pulled to her chest again, her head resting on her knees, and looking at him.

Jon cannot read this look.

It’s like she’s observing him. Watching him. But there’s nothing clinical about it; her eyes are far too soft for that, too warm, and her lower lip is caught underneath her front teeth, and it reminds him, jarringly, of that look she gave him that night in her room as he held her, a look he never thought he’d see again.

Jon blushes, and says, maybe a little too defensively: “What?”

“Nothing.” Sansa falters, and Jon knows it’s quite the opposite of nothing. She starts again, voice even quieter. “I was just wondering… How bad was it?”  


“What?” He asks.

“When you beat up Joffrey.”

Jon nearly chokes on his smoke. “Oh.”

“You probably aren’t allowed to talk about it,” Sansa‘s cheeks are stained pink, and she pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “I shouldn’t have–”

“No. It’s fine.” Jon says quickly. She was right, but she deserved to know more than anyone. “I, uh— apparently I broke his nose in two places. Busted his lip. He’s missing a tooth or two, I think. Might have fractured his jaw.”  


“Oh.” Sansa raises her eyebrows in surprise, and then she smiles a little. “That sounds lovely.”

Jon remembers the frightened look on Joffrey’s face, the way he cowered behind his mother. He says wistfully, “Yeah. It was a sight.”

In that moment, he doesn’t even see it coming. He’s about to bring the cigarette up to his mouth again, but then she’s there, barely a breath away, legs tucked underneath her, and then her arms are looped around his neck, her head against his.

“Thanks.” Sansa whispers.

For a second, he doesn’t move.

It isn’t something he deserves, because at the time he did it, he hadn’t known what Joffrey did to her, but somehow, he understands that’s what makes it better. So that it wasn’t done out of “pity” for her. She wanted him to hurt, and she wanted him to hurt bad, but she just didn’t wanna be the reason.

Jon is glad he could at least do that for her.

Jon just murmurs back, “Thank you.”

She pulls back a little, so she can look at him. “For?”

“Helping me today.” He elaborates. “You shouldn’t have had to–”

“Shut up.” Sansa cuts him off, but without any force. “I _wanted_ to. I don’t wanna hear that again.”

She rests her head against his shoulder, and he does shut up. Gladly.

“I think I’ll leave the whole knight in shining armor stuff to you from now on, though.” She confesses, mid yawn. “You’re way better at it than me.”

Jon grins. “Are you calling me chivalrous?”

She doesn’t answer, but the flush in her cheeks is answer enough.

“Would you say I… carry myself like a man?”  


The punch she aims at his arm with her deceptively slender fist calls him to wince between chuckles, and when she moves away to presumably stomp off, he grabs her by the waist, keeping her stationary. “I’m joking! I’m joking!”  


“I hate you.” Sansa hisses.

He rests his chin on her shoulder, and he’s never been more sure of anything he’s ever said. “Nah. You don’t.”

She ignores that, and pinches his arm around her waist. “Loras _is_ chivalrous, and kind, and handsome—”

“I get it.” Jon grumbles, laugh quickly dying in his throat. He pictures that dickhead with Margaery’s face again, six feet tall with a body like Thor. “He’s seventh heaven.”

“Yeah.” Sansa mutters. “And completely uninterested in me.”

“ _What?_ ” Jon asks, a little too quickly. Perhaps a little too excitedly.

“I just mean, he will be.” She sighs, running her hands through her hair. “With all that bullshit in the tabloids. He’s never gonna come near me if he think I’m dating you. Nobody’s trying to potentially offend a prince. It’s practically boy repellent.”

That didn’t sound all that bad to Jon, really, because at least it would keep Loras’ wormy little lips away from Sansa’s hand, and her mouth, and it would keep all those other assholes away from her too.

But he remembers how her face lit up when she found that dress, and how she smiled when she said his name, and what she said yesterday ( _he makes me happy, he’s good to me)_ and as much as it makes his gut twist, as much as he hates the idea of Sansa with Loras–

Jon knows what he has to do.

“I’ll fix it.”

Sansa looks over at him, bemused. “How?”

He could ask Rhaegar to pull some strings with Varys earlier, as Egg had suggested, and he sure as hell owed him after what he pulled with Sansa today. But she didn’t need to know that.

“Don’t worry about it.” Jon untangles his arms from around her, and sits up. He squashes what remained of the cigarette underneath his shoe. “Just know by Monday, everyone will know we aren’t dating. Promise.”

Despite the fact that she doesn’t look like she believes him, she knows that he doesn’t break promises, so she sighs, nodding. “Alright.”

Before he can open his mouth to say anything else, the door to the backyard opens, and Rickon is poking his head out. Bran and Arya do the same from behind him.

“What’s up?” Jon asks, fully fucking determined to ignore the way their eyes were darting between him and Sansa. It was a good thing they weren’t touching anymore. A lucky thing, honestly.

“Were you guys kissing?” Rickon asks, smirking.

“Go away.” Sansa demands, neck flushed. “Isn’t it like, your bedtime?”  


“They were definitely kissing.” Bran tells Rickon smugly, smile creeping up on his face. “Big sloppy ones too.”

“Oooooh lovebirds!” Rickon trills out, and begins to dance, singing: “Jon and Sansa kissing in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g!”  


“Shut up, you little pervs.” Sansa commands. Jon is grateful that at least her brain is working, so she can come up with comebacks for the both of them. He’s too embarrassed.

“It isn’t like that.” Arya declares stubbornly, pulling on Rickon’s ear. He winces. She reaches for Bran too, but he dodged her just in time. She settles for glaring at him instead.“Get your minds out of the gutter.”

“Duh! We know that!” Bran says. “But it’s still hilarious!”

“You two? As a couple?” Rickon starts cackling, _hard,_ so hard that he’s wheezing and grabbing at his stomach. Bran joins him seconds later, wiping tears from his own eyes.

_(Seriously?)_

“I don’t think it’s that funny.” Jon mutters, scowling.

Arya makes a noise at the back of her throat. “Yeah, well imagine just how unfunny this is to Robb. He. almost went into cardiac arrest. It took an hour to calm him down.”

“I swear to gods, his face was like, purple.” Rickon says, rubbing at his chest. “Ah. Good times.”

His heart plummets. Him and Sansa exchange a look. In unison, they both say, “Shit.”

“I had to turn off my phone.” She says, taking it out, and jamming the power button repeatedly. “I couldn’t take all of the notifications.”

Jon didn’t have such an excuse. Until now, he had forgotten all of Robb’s threats of castration and homicide. Remembering them now, he cringes, curses. “Fuck.”

“Somebody’s in trouble.” Bran sings, looking thrilled, and Jon just knows—

That means nothing good for him.

“Nan says it’s time for dinner.” Arya tells them, widening the door a little. “She wants us all to start washing up.”

“So stop making out and get to the table.” Bran adds on.

Rickon sticks his tongue out. “Yeah, stop _fornicating_ and get to the table.”

_“What?”_ Him and Sansa say in unison, voices unusually high and cracked.

Rickon looks at both of them like their idiots, and puffs out his chest proudly. “It’s like, a college word. They used it more back in like, colonial times or whatever. It means kissing.”

“That’s not what it means.” Bran chokes out between laughs, going into hysterics all over again. Beside him, Arya doesn’t bother to hide her laughter either.

“It is _too.”_ Rickon glares at him, arms crossed over his chest.

Sansa stands up and approaches him, hands on her hips. “Who told you that? Where did you even learn this word from?”

“Lyanna!”

“I don’t know if I want you hanging out with that girl anymore.” She says disapprovingly. “Who knows what other words she’s teaching you?”

Rickon rolls his eyes, begins to whine, “Sansaaaaaaa–”

“None of that.” She reprimands him, putting her hands on his shoulders and steering him back towards the door. “Let’s go wash up.”

Bran follows, still clutching his stomach from laughing so hard, but Arya stays. She’s still smiling over Rickon’s antics. She jabs a thumb in the direction the others went through. “Coming?”

“Yeah.” Jon says, the smile on his own lips fading. “Be right there. Just give me a minute.”

Arya nods, and reluctantly, with one last look over her shoulder, she leaves him outside.

With a feeling of trepidation swamping his stomach, he takes out his phone and scrolls through his contacts. Once finds the one he needs, he presses call before he can talk himself out of it, and of course, Robb answers on the first ring.

Jon opens his mouth, but he gets cut off sharply.

“Explain yourself, Snow.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it isn’t clear: Elia left Rhaegar’s dusty ass. Now he’s in shambles. That’s what’s going on with the Targaryen family. I hope this doesn’t seem like it’s out of nowhere, but I haven’t elaborated on their relationship for a reason. Like I said in chapter 2, there’s a lot left unsaid. Elia also gets her own story in the series. (Bonus points if you can guess who with.) 
> 
> ANYWAYS: favorite lines? Scenes? Character appearances? Any predictions you have? Or just questions? Drop a comment below or come talk to me @jeynesgreyjoy on tumblr (I turned on anon finally, I didn’t realize it was off LMAO) If you’d like to know more about specific characters and their dynamics with each other, I can help with that too (as long as it doesn’t spoil the story lmao)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	11. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa really hates not feeling in control. 
> 
> And that’s a given, for most people, of course. It’s nice to know what’s going to happen, and how its going to happen, and the exact moment it’s gonna happen. But it’s not like they mind when things don’t go exactly as planned, and she knows plenty of people that prefer to let others take the reigns and make decisions for them.
> 
> Sansa is just not one of those people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This is late. Sorry about that. I had severe writer’s block.  
> 2\. This was originally a much longer chapter but I split it in half like I did with Jon’s last chapter. That means another Sansa chapter after this.  
> 3\. when I ask you guys for comments in exchange for an update, it isn’t to make my fic more popular or have the most comments it’s because I GENUINELY need feedback on my work, and the with way the kudos system works, I can’t really gauge just how large my audience is. I’m writing this because I enjoy it, and because I know others do too.  
> 4\. With that being said....45 comments and I’ll release Ch. 12 VERY soon (by Tuesday)
> 
> Enjoy! Thanks for being so patient and encouraging!

**Sansa**

Sansa really hates not feeling in control. 

And that’s a given, for most people, of course. It’s nice to know what’s going to happen, and how its going to happen, and the exact moment it’s gonna happen. But it’s not like they  _ mind  _ when things don’t go exactly as planned, and she knows plenty of people that prefer to let others take the reigns and make decisions for them.

Sansa is just not one of those people.

Those people didn’t map their life out on neon colored index cards when they were eight years old, nor would they have stuck to that plan, either, which is exactly what Sansa did, with a few alterations along the way. She tried to keep those as few as possible, because it turned out, there was a reason it wasn’t apart of the plan in the first place (i.e, King’s Landing) but she had to concede in some places. Like coming back home for senior year, pretending to have a boyfriend, seducing Loras—

But dating a prince, one that also happens to be her brother’s best friend and the bane of her existence—

That’s not a fucking alteration. 

That’s setting the entire plan on fire.

And she’s  _ not  _ dating him. She isn’t, but everyone seems to think so. Her name is the third most trending topic on twitter worldwide on Saturday. “Jon Snow girlfriend Sansa Stark” was the number one google search. She’s seen at least several different variations of the pictures taken by the paparazzi on TV when she dares to take a peek. Snippets of the news keep floating up to her room because Bran and Rickon find the whole ordeal immensely entertaining. Whenever she goes downstairs to get a drink, they make kissy noises at her and ask her where Jon is. Eventually, Sansa just stops going downstairs, and locks herself in her room. She spends most of Saturday, save for when Jon was over, staring at her white ceiling, and resolutely ignoring her phone, which she put on silent. Sunday morning comes, and she doesn’t really intend to do anything different.

But then she gets the text.

Despite putting her phone on do not disturb, she still  _ sees  _ it, and it’s from Jeyne, who had been blowing up her phone nonstop since yesterday. This time, though, Sansa actually feels inclined to answer, because what she reads makes her curious.

**Jeyne**   
  


**_The amount of luck u have...that’s not normal._ ** **_  
  
_ **

**_Like bitch u got LUCKY_ ** **_  
  
_ **

**_I’m talking benign tumor lucky_ ** **_  
  
_ **

Lucky.

She felt like the most unlucky person in the world right about now.

But, unsurprisingly, she gets a text from Alys, minutes later.

**Alys**

**_WHOSE SOUL DID U SELL_ **

**_WHAT CULT SACRIFICE DID U HAVE TO MAKE_ **

**_HOW DOES ABSOLUTELY NOTHING BLOW UP IN UR PRETTY ASS FACE_ **

Something had clearly happened.

Something good?

Reluctantly, Sansa goes to scroll through her news feed. And that is when she sees it.

**False Alarm!!! Jon Snow is NOT dating Joffrey Lannister’s ex**

**Is Jon Snow still single?**

**Jon Snow and Sansa Stark are truly just friends—according to sources closest to the prince.**

She blinks. Let’s out a choked laugh. 

Sansa reluctantly turns in the TV, Illyrio Mopatis is talking about Princess Daenerys’ charity work in Astapor, and below on the subheading that lists other important news, there’s no mention of her name or Jon’s. They’re still a trending google search (Jon Snow girlfriend) but her name was dropped, at least. 

Sansa doesn’t really understand  _ how,  _ but Jon had fixed it.

For the most part.

She’s not stupid enough to think everything is over.

Not with how messy the situation was at school. And if Sansa just took one glance at the barrage of text messages she was  _ still  _ receiving, she knew messy was a supreme understatement. She could get Alys and Jeyne to test out their reactions by talking to their friends. And the press clearing up the rumor had to change  _ something,  _ right? 

What it all came down to was if Wylla, Meera, Ros, and Margaery had caught on. They were the only ones that had ever seen her “boyfriend’s” face, and if they recognized him, realized it was Jon in the car all along, then it wouldn’t matter what he told the press because Sansa herself had told them that they were dating. Or worse, they’d catch on that she had been lying about the whole thing.

This is fucked. 

She summons the courage to check her other messages that she had gotten yesterday when the news broke, this time from Meera, Wylla, and Ros. She goes to Meera first, surely the most harmless out of the bunch.

**Meera**   
  


**_Omg is it true abt u and Jon?_ ** **_  
  
_ **

**_I thought you had a bf already......_ ** **_  
  
_ **

That was fair, because she did, as far as she knew. She just didn’t know that was Jon, too. And all the better for her, really. Now that Jon had “cleared” everything up with the press, Meera wouldn’t think she was a total whore.

Wylla’s messages weren’t as judgemental. She sends a screenshot of one of the pictures that one of many publications had released all over the internet. This one, unlike the others, wasn’t taken when they were leaving, but arriving. She’s tugging him along, and in the middle of saying something, probably complaining about her time limit or insulting him, but whatever it is, he’s grinning, the tiniest bit, and—

Sansa gets how it looks. 

(It’s a miracle that the press even believed him.)

**Wylla**   
  


**_SO CUTE!!!!!_ ** **_  
  
_ **

**_I CAN’T ALSNXKS!!!!!!_ ** **_  
  
_ **

**_No wonder u wanted to break up with ur old bf!!!_ **

She  _ had  _ said that, hadn’t she? That would definitely hurt her or help her tomorrow. She had originally said it to let Loras know that she was gonna be single soon, but Wylla had interpreted it as she was already moving on to make moves on Jon. But now that it was officially confirmed that she  _ wasn’t  _ with Jon, what would happen now? What did everyone think now?

When Sansa comes to Ros’ messages, she finds the same yepscreenshot, and she knows instantly that they’re probably talking about her in some group chat somewhere. It only makes her more uneasy, as she reads on.

**Ros**   
  


**_U lucky bitch_ ** **_  
  
_ **

**_If I had him wrapped around my finger I’d drop White Harbor boy in two seconds too...._ ** **_  
  
_ **

**_THAT ASS OMG_ **

Typical Ros response.

Sansa does not have to scroll far to get to Margaery’s messages, and when she does, she finds a screenshot of one of the many pictures the paparazzi took on Friday, and a text message that makes her blood run cold.

**Margaery**

**_A jawline for days_ ** **.**

A jawline for days.

A jawline for fucking days.

It echoes, bounces off the walls inside walls of her head like a rubber ball, and she can  _ recall  _ Meera saying the words to her in the quad as if it were just yesterday. She had used the phrase to describe Jon, only she hadn’t  _ known  _ it was Jon, still doesn’t—

But Margaery  _ does _ .

***

Sansa doesn’t really have any cards left to play. 

She starts freaking the fuck out.

Pacing all over the room, and wringing her hands until they were sore. She flings the phone onto the bed with an angry shout, but then reaches for it, only to throw it again. Her heart is beating too fast in her chest, and she feels a little dizzy, because Margaery  _ knew _ , she knew  _ everything  _ and this meant—

It meant her life was over. 

She’d be the loser who lied about having a boyfriend, the worst kind of loser, and she’d be the laughing stock the entire school. Loras wouldn’t wanna date her then, and even Arya would be more popular than her. 

She had to fix this.

She just didn’t know  _ how. _

“What are you doing?”

Sansa turns to find Arya leaning against the door frame staring at her curiously. She nearly opens her mouth to inquire about how she got in, since the door was locked, but she knew that there was no point in asking, and she had more pressing things to worry about anyway.

“Catastrophizing.” She answers with a bitter laugh, tugging at the roots of her hair so hard it makes her head hurt. “So if you don’t mind—”

“Jeyne called and sent me to check on you.” Arya interrupts briskly. But the hardness in her voice falters a little.

As if the situation wasn’t already apocalyptic enough, Jeyne and Arya were actually having civil conversations at her expense. Seven hells. Sansa huffs, “Well, you can tell her I’m fine—”    
  


“Catastrophizing isn’t fine.” Arya shoots back pointedly with a raised eyebrow.

“Arya—” She begins irritatedly. 

“Does this have anything to do with what people are saying at school?”

Sansa isn’t even aware that she’s holding her breath. “What are they saying?”   
  


“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”   
  


“I don’t!” She shouts, but it’s not like she can give much of an explanation. What would she even say? I don’t, I just had to pretend I did because I was stupid enough to kiss Jon in front of my friends? Oh, and because I wanted to make Loras believe I had a boyfriend so he’d be even more interested in me?

Sansa didn’t have to be psychic to know that would get her a right hook to the face.

She quite  _ liked  _ her face.

“Then why—” Arya begins.

“Because that’s what I told them.” Sansa snaps. 

She’s expecting another why, because Arya was nothing if not fucking nosy, but she is surprised when Arya just rolls her eyes, seemingly dismissing it all, and bulldozing onto the next order of business. 

“Some people think you cheated on your ‘boyfriend’ with Jon.”    
  


“Gods.” Sansa had seen that coming, from the texts she had read so far, but she had thought whatever Jon had done to get the press to change their narrative would have affected their viewpoints somewhat. “Didn’t they see the news?”   
  


“That’s why I said some people.” Arya emphasizes, as if she were talking to an imbecile. And then she shrugs. “It used to be all before everyone saw the news.”   
  


“Gods.” Is all Sansa can repeat, rubbing at her temples. She is close to collapsing on her bed and screaming into her pillow when it hits her, right then:

No one knew.

No one knew about the Jon thing, at least. Which means Margaery hadn’t told anyone...yet. But why? Why was she waiting? She clearly knew, and wanted  _ Sansa  _ to know that she knew. Maybe she was waiting for the right moment to embarrass her. When they were all at school together. Or maybe she was giving her a chance to come clean and beg for mercy...only for her to expose it all anyway. 

There was no way of telling.

Arya, oblivious to Sansa’s inner turmoil, scoffs in agreement. “I know. It’s like they forgot that you guys can’t stand each other.”   
  


_ What am I gonna do? _

Sansa doesn’t realize she’s said it out loud until Arya offers her an answer. Her face is sympathetic, something unusual when it came to their interactions, and she even offers a wry attempt at a smile.

“I can threaten to beat them up for you. If you want.”   
  


As much as she doesn’t want to, Sansa laughs. Maybe because if she doesn’t she’ll end up crying. “What has Dad told you about using violence to solve problems?”   
  


“They’re your problems, not mine.” Arya quips. “Maybe he’ll be happy because we’re finally getting along.”   
  


Gods, they  _ are  _ getting along, aren’t they? It makes Sansa’s reluctant smile shrivel up on her face, and her stomach begins to churn again.

_ (This really is the end of the world.) _

This silence is one Arya notices. She sobers up, and comes to sit beside her on the bed. She nudges her. “It’s not that bad, Sans. It could be worse.”   
  


Sansa just falls back against her pillows, rubbing her eyes in exhaustion. “Yeah. I guess.”

_ (It’s already worse.) _

_ (This is just the calm before the storm.) _

***

Arya leaves and Sansa picks up her phone and does what she always does in times of crisis. What she should have done way fucking sooner.

She calls her girls. 

Jeyne answers on the first ring. 

“Good to know you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere.” Jeyne answers on the first ring, voice shrill. Sansa winces, pulling the phone away from her ear. Even still, she’s never been more glad to hear her complaining.

“I know—” she begins.

“Hold your groveling.” Jeyne cuts off. “I have to add Alys, and I don’t wanna hear you do it twice.” 

Sansa does not have to wait very long. Seconds later, she hears Alys’ voice on the line. It’s just as ornery as Jeyne’s.

“Well, look who remembered little old us!”

“I’m  _ sorry _ .” Sansa laments, chewing on her lower lip. “I didn’t know what to do! I needed time to regroup.”

“That’s fair.” Alys admits finally, and Jeyne makes a sound of begrudging agreement, adding, “Just don’t disappear on us again.”

“I won’t.” She promises. “Guys. This is bad. This is so bad.”   
  


“Okay, calm down.” Jeyne starts, voice uncharacteristically calm.

“Calm down?” Sansa lets out a frantic sounding laugh. “How can I possibly calm down? Margaery knows.”   
  


“We don’t know that.” Alys says.

“We do, actually. She all but said so.”   
  


Alys and Jeyne are silent, waiting for her to explain, so she does, sending the screenshot of Margaery’s text and fumbling through a half coherent explanation of how she got it, and what it could all possibly mean. 

Jeyne sneers, “Jawline for days, that sneaky bitch!”   
  


“Well, she hasn’t told anyone.” Alys says, always quick to look on the bright side. “She obviously wants something.”

“If you can give it to her, maybe your life isn’t over.” Jeyne mutters resignedly.

“Maybe?” Sansa squeaks. “I’m gonna be her bitch for the rest of the year. Probably my entire life!”

Margaery had the memory of an elephant. As long as it was beneficial to her, she’d always remember to hold it over Sansa. She’d probably be 80, running around as Margaery’s minion to keep her from telling everyone her secret.

“It’s better than being a loser that pretended to have a boyfriend!” Jeyne counters.

_ (True.) _

_ (Very true.) _

“You’re not helping.” Alys scolds her.

“Sorry.” Jeyne apologizes quickly. “So what’s the plan?”   
  


Hadn’t plans got her into this mess in the first place? Or was it the lack thereof? Sansa didn’t even know anymore, all she knew was that she didn’t have a lot of choices here, and far less time, which was ticking away every second she spent at this stupid game. It was over, wasn’t it? Margaery really won.

“Surrender.” She mumbles, rubbing at her forehead. “And beg for mercy.”   
  


***

Sansa can’t really find it in herself to sleep, later that night. 

Several times, she tries to get up, and make herself walk to Margaery’s house to confront her, but each time, she talks herself out of it. All of the reassurances Alys and Jeyne give her don’t make her feel any better. After two hours of tossing and turning, restless, Sansa slips out of her bed at midnight, trying to find anything else to do to take her mind off of her thoughts. 

She stops by Rickon’s room first, and finds him where he is supposed to be for once, fast asleep in bed. When she looks in on Bran, she finds him snoring with his dream theory book propped on his chest. She bookmarks it, sets it on the dresser, and tucks him in more soundly, before shutting the door. She doesn’t bother checking on Arya, who is obviously on the phone with Gendry if all the snorting coming from her room told her anything. That makes Sansa smile.

_ (At least that’s still going well.) _

Without anything left to do, Sansa wanders back to her bed, snatching her phone off her dresser, flopping back onto the mattress resignedly. She’s scrolling through her notifications, contemplating on whether to call Alys and Jeyne to freak out again, when she sees something that makes her breath catch.

**_One missed call - Jon_ **

She rubs her eyes, just to make sure she hadn’t misread it.

And it is  _ Jon,  _ not any of the other Jon’s she knew, as it was a painfully common name, but her Jon. She even clicks on the contact to make sure, and it’s his last name and number. But why? She couldn’t even remember the last time they had talked on the phone, if they  _ ever  _ had. And what was there to say? They hadn’t left on bad terms last night; she hadn’t even got to say goodbye to him. She secretly thought he was still mad at her, and moreso at himself for how things went down last night.

But he’s calling her, and Sansa has no clue why she is so desperate to find out why.

So her thumb  _ slips. _

It slips, and she clicks the notification banner, and her phone is dialing Jon’s number again. She squeaks, a shiver running down her spine, “Shit!” and fumbles to press end call repeatedly, but it’s not working, and it doesn’t matter because by the second ring, the line actually  _ picks up _ .

“Hello?”

It’s as if her brain refused to believe it was him until she heard his voice, and the gravelliness of it makes her jump a little. “Hi.” She’s positive her voice sounds higher than usual, and she facepalms herself. This conversation was already the most embarrassing one she had had in years. “Were you asleep? I could—”   
  


“No. I was—” Jon clears his throat. “Wide awake.”    
  


Sansa isn’t sure she believes him, but him staying up late to study on a school night wasn’t such a stretch. She reprimands him softly, “You should be asleep.”   
  


“So should you.”   
  


Like she needed to be reminded that. She blushes. “I was asleep.” She lied. “More than I can say for you.”    
  


She can hear the grin in his voice. It irritates her an unreasonable amount. “Is that why you called me? To lecture me on my sleeping habits?”   
  


Gods, the way he makes it  _ sound,  _ like she was just thinking about him, and took time out of her night to call him out of nowhere, it makes her blush. “I called you because you called me first.”

When he speaks, it doesn’t sound as if he’s smiling anymore. “I did.”   
  


He’s silent for an moment.

Sansa doesn’t quite know what to say either, just knows that the anticipatory pressure building in her chest renders her too uncomfortable to speak, so she says nothing, fondling with the corner of her silk pillowcase. 

“I talked to my father,” Jon begins. “and his PR agent pulled some strings with the press—”   
  


“I saw.” Sansa says quickly, and then softly, “Thank you.”

And she means it. While it didn’t seem like it at the moment, if Margaery decided not to come clean to the entire school, then it would actually help in the long run. And even if she did, at least Jon wouldn’t be dragged down with her.

“And—” he pauses. “I was talking to Arya–”   
  


Unable to help it, Sansa rolls her eyes. Who knows what she told him? “Were you?”   
  


“She said you’re freaking out about school tomorrow.”   
  


Fucking Arya. Sansa squeezes her eyes shut, and sighs. “What else did she open up her big fat mouth to say?”   
  


“Don’t.” Jon scolds her, but then his voice goes soft again. Gentle. “Sansa, you could have told me if you were still having problems.”   
  


She  _ knew  _ he would do this. “Why? What could you do? What more can you do?”   
  


“I don’t—I could call more people, I could—“I should have remembered that your friends knew–” He snaps.

“Stop.” She cuts him off sharply. “You’re overcompensating.”   
  


“I am not.”

  
“You  _ are _ , because you still feel bad about yesterday.”   
  


Jon doesn’t speak, and Sansa knows she’s right. It makes her heart squeeze painfully in her chest. She had done her best to push all that business with Joffrey last night to the back of her mind, and it wasn’t hard, with this whole Margaery situation, but Jon obviously hadn’t had as much luck.

“I told you, I wanted to—”   
  


“And I want to do this.” He interjects stubbornly, heatedly. “So it’s okay for you to help me, but not me to help you?”   
  


He’s right. 

She  _ really  _ hates it when he’s right.

And as much as Sansa knew there wasn’t much he could do about her situation, she also knew he wouldn’t believe her until he knew everything himself. So she sighs, turning to lay on her back. “It’s stupid.”   
  


“Try me.”   
  


It takes awhile to explain, but Jon is a good listener. She tells him everything, from the texts, omitting Ros’ choice of words, to her conversation with Arya, to what Alys and Jeyne had told her during their phone call. When she’s finished, he’s silent for only a moment, for so long that she thinks he actually fell asleep, but then he speaks.

“So they think you’re cheating on me?” Jon asks bemusedly. “With me?”   
  


“I told you.” Sansa groans. “It sounds silly when you say it like that.”   
  


“It’s not silly if it makes you upset.” He says.

That shouldn’t make the pressure in her chest build. 

It  _ really  _ shouldn’t.

Jon sighs. “You don’t know if Margaery’s gonna tell anyone. She hasn’t yet, right?”   
  


“Not yet.” Sansa confirms with a bitter laugh. “She’s probably waiting for me to come groveling.”

“Sounds like her.”

They’re silent for awhile, as she waits for him to come to the conclusion that this is just something she’s going to have to deal with on her own, but he’s still musing. Still persisting.

“What if….what if she was lying?”

“What?” Sansa frowns, sitting up. “She  _ isn’t  _ lying.”

“Yeah, but she would be if we were actually dating this whole time.” Jon says.

And she had thought about it.

Of course she had thought about it.

Coming clean (or as close to clean as she was ever going to get without admitting the full embarrassing truth) was the easiest solution school wise. No one would ever find out she lied and she’d replace Margaery as Queen Bee at school easily. She’d be the most popular girl in school in one fell swoop.

But then there was her family.

Arya would punch her. Robb would kill Jon. Who knew how her father would react and Bran and Rickon….well they either already seemed to think they were dating or just found it so inconceivable that it would never not be funny to bring up.

And besides, Loras would never ask her out after that.

“As if.” Sansa says. “Did you see the way the world imploded when they actually believed we were dating?”

“True.” Jon mutters with a defeated sigh. 

But it means something though, that he’d even suggest it, knowing the consequences. It makes her stomach feel all fluttery, and she swipes a hand over the pillow on her left side, where Jon had been laying just awhile ago, holding her. As if that’d make him magically reappear. “I couldn’t use you like that again.”

“It wasn’t a big deal.” He says. “I know I give you a lot of shit most of the time but—I’d do anything for you.”

It’s like a super sized anvil just caves her chest right in, and Sansa has to let out a ragged breath. This cracked open feeling makes her throat hurt, and her skin hurt, and her heart—

But it’s the good kind of hurt too.

“Yeah.” She mumbles. “Same.”

It’s such a lackluster response, so lacking in what she feels, what she really wants to say, but Jon must get it because he says, “Yeah.” and the quiet that envelops them is comfortable. She could fall asleep in this quiet. Spend the rest of her life in it.

This quiet is kind of dangerous. 

So she speaks. “Any other ideas?”

“Uh—“ Jon trails off. “You could ditch.”

“Ditch?” Sansa snorts. “Yeah right.” 

“I’m serious.” He replies. “I’ll ditch too, all my morning classes. “We’ll just go somewhere. No cameras, or Margaery’s, or—”   
  


“Bran’s and Rickon’s?” She adds hopefully.

Jon laughs.“Bran’s and Rickon’s would not be allowed.”

That laugh sits with her too warmly. The words, they just slip out.  “Just you and me?”   
  


“And Bronn and Jory.” He says. “But yeah….You and me.”   
  


Gods.

That really shouldn’t please her so much. 

“I can’t believe the biggest dork I know is trying to get me to ditch with him.” Sansa scoffs, instead of saying any of the words clogged up in her throat, words that were too raw and ones that she would surely regret in the morning.

“I’m a dork?” He snorts. “I could have sworn you dressed as like, a Bronte sister for Halloween—”   
  


“It was a class project.” She interrupts, cheeks flushed. “Could you like–not?”   
  


“Sorry.” He chuckles.

“I’m not sure an impromptu road trip would help with the rumors, anyway.” Sansa says begrudgingly, crossing her arms over chest. “That’s what got us into this trouble in the first place, you know.”   
  


“I don’t care who sees us together.” 

(Please.)

Did he have to keep doing this? Saying things like this? All the right things. Nice things. It made her confused. It irritated her. She considers telling him that, but Jon says:  “Can’t hurt us anymore than it already has, right?”

“Right.” She bites her lip, deflating a little. “Rain check on the road trip, though?”   
  


“Sure.” Jon says. “I don’t wanna chance Robb getting pissed at me again, anyway.”

“Robb?” Sansa questions. “Does that mean he forgave you?”

She still hadn’t risked answering any of Robb’s calls or texts. She wasn’t ready to hear his whining just yet. 

“He’s not as mad as he was yesterday, at least.”

Sansa winces. “How bad was it?”   
  


“Give me a ballpark.” He hums.

“On a scale of 1-10.”   
  


“11.”   
  


She  _ knew  _ it was bad but the verbal confirmation makes it worse somehow. “Gods.”   
  


“Yeah.” Jon mutters. “He says you’re not answering his calls.”   
  


“Well—would you?” Sansa snaps.

“I did.”

That only makes her feel even more guilty.  “He wasn’t too hard on you?”   
  


“I’m alive.” He jokes. “Barely.”   
  


“He’s so....ugh!” Sansa slams a fist down into her mattress. “he’s  _ so  _ over protective. It’s like, ever since this whole thing with Joffrey. I know he feels bad, but he’s hovering over me. All the time.”   
  


“He just wants to keep you safe.” Jon says, because no matter how much of an asshole Robb was to him, he’d always come to his defense. 

“I know,” She mumbles. “but, you would think that he would know that you’re the last person he needs to protect me from.”   
  


Maybe Robb does know that, deep down, but it appeared he wouldn’t be coming to terms with it any time soon.

“If it makes you feel any better, my brother isn’t too happy with you, either.”   
  


Sansa furrows her brow. “He isn’t?”   
  


“Not at all.” but she can hear the amusement in his voice. “He’s upset that I managed to get a girlfriend prettier than anyone he’s ever had.”   
  


Sansa lets out a laugh She is all too aware sounds like a giggle, but she couldn’t help it. A prince thought she was hot. And not just any prince, Prince Aegon. People Magazine’s sexiest man alive just last year. She always knew she was pretty, but pretty enough to catch the prince’s eye?

“Seems you’re way out of my league.” Jon says.

Her laughter fades a little. “I don’t believe in leagues.”   
  


He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and that’s when the full gravity of what she just said finally hits her, that he could date her, if he wanted to, and she wants to curl up in a hole and die because that’s totally not what she meant. She rushes to cover it up. “But you’re brother is very handsome. He’s truly created a league of his own—”   
  


“Please don’t start talking about how hot you think my brother is.” Jon groans. “I will throw myself down the stairs.”    
  


Sansa laughs, partly because of his dramatics, but mostly because they ventured back into safe territory again. She turns on her side. “What about your sister? What did she think?”   
  


She didn’t wanna hang up just yet, and this was an opportunity to get him to talk about Rhaenys, and get some information on her.

“Not sure. Haven’t talked to her since yesterday.”   
  


And that troubles him, Sansa can tell. He doesn’t say so, but he doesn’t need to. She can picture the furrow in his brow, the frown pulling down at the corners of his mouth, and she wishes he was right next to her so she could smooth it all out. 

“Was she unavailable too?” Sansa asks. “Like the king was?”

“No. She’s fine.” Jon reassures her. “Physically, I mean. But I don’t...I don’t know.”   
  


Before she summons up the courage to ask him what that means, Jon beats her to it. “It’s almost 1:30 am. You have school tomorrow.”

“So do you.” Sansa points out.

“I’m gonna be in law school. I know how to run on four hours of sleep. You don’t.”   
  


“Fine.” Sansa pouts, but then she falters, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Jon?”   
  


“Hm?” 

She hears how noncommittal it is, the intention nonchalance, and it stings a little. Perhaps it’s because he didn’t want to worry her, or maybe it’s simply because he didn’t feel comfortable talking to her about it. She didn’t know. But she had to at least try.

“I know...I know I’m not Arya or Robb but…” she pulls the covers up to her chin, pressing the phone to her ear. “You can come to me. if you wanna talk. If you need anything.”    
  


Jon doesn’t say anything, and for a minute, Sansa thinks she’s lost him. Thinks she’s crossed some line that there’s no redrawing. Which would be fair. This wasn’t normal for them, talking, comforting each other, that just wasn’t them. At least it hadn’t been before. But now they’re older, and that two year long absence from each other’s lives had definitely softened things up a little. And the lines were blurring ever so slightly, with Robb away at school. But then again, maybe it had always been this between them, and it just took a lot to get them here Sansa doesn’t  _ know,  _ she just knows—

She needs Jon to know that she’s here for him too.

“Yeah.” He exhales eventually. “I know.”   
  


She feels like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders.

“Get some rest, baby.” 

Jon hangs up, and for once, Sansa is glad for his abrupt tendencies because she wouldn’t have known what to say. She’s glad she’s laying down, because her knees feel weak, and her head feels indescribably  _ fuzzy,  _ and the only sound that emits from her mouth is this choked sound, and all she can hear is  _ baby baby baby baby— _

Sansa turns into the pillow, the one that Jon had been laying on all that time ago. She had washed it since then, so it didn’t smell like him anymore, but she still nuzzles into it, breathing deeply.

Sleep comes easily, after that. 

***

Despite only sleeping for five hours, Sansa floats down the stairs the next morning in a quiet haze of contentment. It’s a stark contrast to the war zone Bran and Rickon have turned the kitchen into. Despite this, she manages a cordial “Morning,” to her younger brothers.

“I want toaster strudel.” Rickon informs her petulantly, pointing the toaster.

“We don’t have any toaster strudel.” She says patiently. “And even if we did, you’re banned from using the toaster.”

“Have you seen my headphones?” Bran demands, tipping over nearly half a cereal box of coco puffs into a dish that looked way too large to be a bowl. 

“No.” Sansa answers at the same time Rickon offers up a mischievous “Maybe.” 

Bran immediately married his eyes at Rickon. “Are you lying?”   
  


“Maybe.” Rickon repeats, this time with an impish grin.

“Rickon.” Bran snaps. 

“Brandon.” He says back, but in a voice that sounds eerily like Darth Vader.

Before Sansa has the chance to break up the fight that was sure to break out, the sound of an horn beeping shortly outside catches their attention. Sansa nearly thinks it’s Jeyne, but when she looks outside, she finds a black Harley parked outside their house, and a familiar figure sitting on it.

“What the—” Sansa begins.

“That’s a motorcycle.” Rickon says excitedly, as if he had never seen one before.

“That’s Gendry.”   
  


They all turn to find Arya bounding down the stairs, backpack in hand.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sansa interrogates, marching up to her, although she knows full well what her answer is going to be.

“To school.” Arya says plaintively, heading towards the door.

“Not on the back of that thing.” Sansa snaps.

“I’d like to see you try and stop me.” Arya shoots back, rolling her eyes and throwing open the door.

Sansa follows her outside. Gendry greets her like an old friend, lifting the visor of his helmet up so he can see her properly. “Hey, Sansa.”   
  


Arya pinches his arm, swinging a leg over the bike and wrapping an arm around his waist. “Don’t acknowledge her, just drive.

“You’re driving my sister to school on this death contraption?” Sansa hisses at him, furious. 

If driving school had taught her anything, it’s that motorcycles were the harbingers of death on the read. The amount of road accidents caused by them were astronomical. If she had known that by setting Arya up with Gendry she’d be setting her up with her coffin as well—she wouldn’t have said anything in the first place. 

“A cool death contraption.”   
  


Sansa turns to find Bran and Rickon behind her, marveling at said death contraption. How had they even got here? Before she can shoo them away, Gendry answers Bran gladly.

“It’s not a death contraption if you’re careful.”   
  


“And are you careful?” Sansa asks, arms crossed over her chest. 

“As fuck.” Gendry salutes her. “Scout’s honor.”    
He pulls something out of his bag, another helmet, and puts it on Arya’s head. He gestures to her now protected skull. “See?”

“I look like a lollipop.” Arya scowls, displeased. 

“Safety is sexy.” Gendry winks at her.

(Gods, they really were sickening, weren’t they?)

(Just sickeningly cute.)

“Are you Arya’s boyyyyyfrienddddd?” Rickon sings, waggling his eyebrows.

“Don’t make me get off this bike.” Arya snaps. 

Sansa laughs, but it fades quickly. There was obviously no getting Arya off this bike without a fight, so she just sighs, running a hand through her hair. “Text me when you get to school, please. And drive carefully.  _ Slowly _ .”   


Gendry nods at her. “Yes ma’am.”   
  


Arya smacks at his shoulder. “Just drive, kiss ass.” 

Gendry laughs, but obeys, and they’re speeding away from the curb. Arya lets out a little squeal, and then they’re off, at a reasonable pace as promised, down the road and around the corner. Once they’re out of sight, Bran lets out a low whistle, chuckling.

“I can’t  _ wait  _ to tell Dad.”

***

Jeyne arrives not five minutes later, with Alys in the passenger seat. She usually road with sigorn, but she probably wanted to walk into school with them for moral support. Sansa couldn’t be more thankful. As soon as she gets into the backseat, the fate awaiting her at school, with Margaery, seemed even more impending. 

Jeyne meets her eyes in the rear view mirror. “Hey harlot.”   
  


Alys shoves at her, and Sansa glares. Jeyne winces. “Too soon?”   
  


“Entirely way too soon.” It was just like Jeyne to try to lighten up the situation with humor, but right now, she just wasn’t in the mood. She wishes she had taken up Jon on that offer to ditch.

“It’ll be fine, Sans. Really.” Alys promises, reaching back to squeezes her knee. 

“You know we’ve got your back.” Jeyne agrees.

“I know.” Sansa says. She just wish she didn’t need them to have it.

Inside of her purse, her phone rings, and she fishes it out. She’s half hoping it’s Jon, but one look at the caller ID tells her she’s not so lucky.

“Who’s that?” Alys asks.

Sansa sighs. “Robb.”   
  


“Ew.” Jeyne wrinkles her nose. 

“You still haven’t talked to him yet?” Alys says. Her blue eyes are disapproving and Sansa can’t help but hang her head in shame.

“Jon said he did already!” She says defensively. “I thought that would be enough to get him to relax.”   
  


“Obviously not.” Jeyne huffs. 

Sansa stares down at her phone. It was nearing its last ring. If she didn’t do this now, she’d just have to do it after school, when she would probably already be drained from the emotional ass kicking Margaery have her. So she takes a deep breath, bracing herself, and answers, putting it on speaker. “Hello?”

“So your phone does work?” Robb snaps. “Good to know.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. And they called  _ her  _ the dramatic one, honestly. “How can I help you, Robert?”   
  


Her nonchalance obviously infuriated him. “How can you help me?” He seethes. “You could start by answering the phone for once. One minute, I’m in the middle of an exam, and the next, I’m looking at this trash blog talking about my best friend dating my baby sister.”   
  


Alys is sympathizing with her in the rear view mirror, while Jeyne is obviously trying not to burst out laughing. She draws strength from both of them, and with a level voice, says, “You should have known it wasn’t true. It’s Jon.”   
  


“That’s What I thought!” Robb shouts, voice accusing. “It’s Jon. But then I start seeing pictures of you guys holding hands in matching outfits and smiling, and I don’t know what to think!”

The pictures. Those looked bad, she had to admit, but the matching outfits was completely on accident, but explaining that to Robb would be like admitting there was something there to explain. Which she was  _ not  _ going to do. So she makes her voice extra airy, and says, “I don’t see what the big deal is.”   
  


“The big deal?” Robb repeats. “Do you really think you should be dating right now anyway?”   
  


All casual pretenses are dropped, and Sansa narrows her eyes at the phone. “Excuse me?”   
  


Alys and Jeyne are silent in the front seat, but they exchange a look.

“I didn’t—“ Robb sighs. “I didn’t mean it like that, Sans. You know I didn’t.”

And she does know, but it still hurts nonetheless. Did he really think that she was so naïve and helpless she couldn’t make the right decisions about guys? All because of one bad boyfriend, did he really not trust her to have good enough judgement to date again? Was this how the rest of her life was going to play out? Robb and her father hovering over her?

When would she stop being the victim?

“I’m just worried about you.” Robb says, voice gentle and apologetic. “I don’t want you getting hurt again.”

The mere implication of his words pisses her off. “Jon is nothing like Joffrey.”    
  


“Exactly.” Robb emphasizes. “He isn’t usually the type of guy you go for, is all I’m saying.”

“You’re saying I have a type.” Sansa frowns. “I don’t have a type.”

“You do.” Both Alys and Jeyne chorus from the front seat. She glares at them, and they smile apologetically.

“Who’s that?” Robb asks curiously.

Sansa ignores that, insisting firmly, at both Robb and her best friends, “I do  _ not _ have a type.”    
  


“Why are you so adamant on the fact that you don’t have a type if you and Jon aren’t dating?” That annoyingly suspicious tone leaks back into his words, but it trips her up this time, because he has a point.

Jeyne seems to think so too. She tosses a grin at her. “He’s got you there.”

Sansa blushes. “We-we aren’t.” She stammers. “ I just don’t like being perceived as such a  _ shallow _ individual.”   
  


The insistence doesn’t do much for her case, because Robb is silent, and she doesn’t need to see him to know he’s trying to psychoanalyze her through the phone. She puts more firmness into her voice. “Me and Jon _ …never _ . Like  _ ever _ .”   
  


_ Except for that one time in the car, _ a voice in her head whispers, and the other  _ hundred times in your dreams, _

Thankfully, Robb isn’t a mind reader. He seems to finally be convinced, and he huffs out a sigh of relief. “Gods, remind me to never listen to Theon again.”   
  


“Theon?” Sansa bleats, turning to glare at Jeyne. Alys does the same, and Jeyne just shrugs helplessly at them.

“Yeah. He tried to convince me that Jon’s had it bad for you like, this whole time.” Robb says, scoffing. “Which is ridiculous. I can’t believe I listened to him.”   
  


“Me either.” In her head, Sansa made a mental note to kick theon’s ass the minute she saw him again. 

“Who the fuck is Loras, by the way?”   
  


She swears her blood runs cold. She says, “Loras?”

“Yeah, Jon let it slip.” Robb says, and he sounds like their father for a minute. “Don’t think you’re getting off scot free that easy.”   
  


Great. Now she had to kick Jon’s ass as soon as she saw him again too.

“Gods, does he seem even nosier than usual to you?”    
Jeyne says exasperatedly. They’re pulling into the school parking lot, now.

“That’s Jeyne, isn’t it?” Robb says. “Hey Jeyne.”    
  


Jeyne just lets out a mean laugh, shaking her head. “Nope.”

“Seriously?” Robb gapes, astounded. “You’re still pissed at me?”

“Still.” Jeyne says sweetly. 

Before Sansa had left, Jeyne had been holding the record for world’s longest grudge against Robb, for daring to get a girlfriend while she had a crush on him. While that could have been easily forgiven, it didn’t help matters that the girl’s name was also Jeyne, and she was also black. In Jeyne’s mind, if Robb was going to date a black girl named Jeyne, it might as well have been her.

(It didn’t make sense to Sansa, but not a lot of things Jeyne did made sense to her, like dating Theon.)

During the summer, Jeyne and Robb had been cordial for her sake, since she had still been dealing with the Joffrey mess, but now that Sansa was in a less fragile state of mind, all bets were clearly off again,

“It’s been three years—” Robb starts heatedly.

“Bell’s about to ring.” Sansa lies, taking the phone off speaker. “I’ll call you later. Love you!”   
  


“Sansa—”   
  


“Bye!” She hangs up, and tucks the phone back in her purse with a huff.

“That was…pleasant.” Alys cringes.

“Not nearly as pleasant as this is about to be.” Sansa says sardonically, staring up at their school building. For some reason, it looked more menacing than usual.

“Chin up, Wolf girl.” Jeyne says, patting her cheek. “You’ve already got them in the palm of your hand.”   
  


***

The day is suspiciously unremarkable...at first.

The stares are something she was expecting, something she had prepared to herself, but she had also prepared herself for the jeers and laughter. The latter does not come. All of her friends interact with her as if nothing is amiss, save for asking her to dish about what happened this weekend later, and in third period, Margaery is nothing but friendly, doesn’t even give her any lingering mischievous look, but she does wink at her when handing her a worksheet. 

She  _ knows _ . She just hasn’t told anybody.

Sansa needs to take control of the narrative while that lasts, so at lunch, she holds court.

“I can’t believe you guys aren’t really dating.” Wylla sighs, chin in hand and obviously distraught.

“Nope.” Sansa says. “False alarm.”   
  


Across from her, Margaery is observing her, and appearing to enjoy it. Her head is cocked in thought, and her lips are tilted up in amusement. She looks like a cat. An evil, gorgeous cat. Just taunting her.

But Sansa needs to see how far she’s willing to let her lie.

“I bet your boyfriend wasn’t pleased.” Meera says, sympathizing. 

“Not especially.” Sansa feigns a sigh. This part would be tricky. This part was the true test. “He actually broke up with me because of it,”   
  


Margaery coughs loudly into her elbow, and it is so obviously a stifled laugh that Sansa is surprised that no one notices. Except Loras. He glares at his twin sister, and then turns to her, rubbing soothing circles into her back. It’s an effort for Sansa to not just melt into his hands.

“Sorry about that, duchess.” He says. “There’s plenty of fish in the sea.”    
  


_ (Yeah, but I’m only fishing for you.) _

Ros tsks, shaking her head. “If your boyfriend was mad enough to call it quits imagine how his girlfriend feels.”   
  


Sansa freezes. 

Swallows.

Girlfriend.

Girlfriend.

_ What? _

“I’d be raving.” Ros continues, flipping her hair. “Have you seen his ass? It’d be a cold day in hell before I let anyone near it.”   
  


Meera says something in agreement and the girls all start laughing, but Sansa doesn’t hear the rest. She feels a tugging at her arm and turns to see Jeyne and Alys looking at her weirdly, gesturing to her phone.

It’s a text. From Alys, who sat across the table, to both of them in their group chat.

**Alys**

**_It’s some rumor they’re turning around at the Baelish independent_ **

**_That Jon couldn’t be dating u bc he’s already dating someone_ **

**_Complete BS_ **

Complete bullshit.

But was it?

What if this was the way Jon called himself fixing the situation? By saying he was dating someone else? Or worse? What if he is dating someone? And even  _ worse,  _ why does she think of that as the worst option? It really should  _ not  _ bother her this much—

Sansa stands up abruptly. Everyone at the table looks at her.

“I’ll be back.” She says with what she hopes is a breezy smile. “Bathroom break.”   
  


She walks as slowly as she can out the cafeteria, and it’s a miracle she does it without just making a break for it and running. 

***

Sansa doesn’t really know what to do, just knows that she needs some time alone, so she heads into the bathroom. 

After checking the stalls for feet, she lets out a breath, and leans back against the wall. She takes her phone out of her purse, almost frantically, and it’s almost as if her fingers find Jon’s contact on her own, but then she falters. 

Why does she need to know if this is true or not?

Why is it any of her business? 

“What am I doing?” She wonders aloud.

“I’m wondering the same thing.”   
  


Sansa whips around, and finds Margaery behind her. She’s still got that look on her face, the curious one, and even though she’s shorter, she’s still every bit of imposing. But Sansa refuses to cower and hide. She’s completely done with all these games. 

“Is there something you want to say to me, Margaery?”

Margaery laughs, running her long nails against the porcelain sink. “Can’t a friend check on a friend?”

“We aren’t friends.”

“Ouchie.” Margaery pouts, poking out her lower lip, but she can’t even keep it for long, because she starts laughing. “Okay, you caught me! I guess, when it comes to this whole press situation I’m a little...confused.”

“Confused.” The word tastes sour in her mouth. Here it comes. “About what?”

“Wow. You’re good. I honestly don’t know whether to admire you or be insulted.” Margaery looks her up and down, as if she was genuinely appraising her. “Do you really think I’m as stupid as the others?”   
  


_ Stupider.  _ Sansa wants to say, but her courage doesn’t make her that bold. In fact, it’s starting to wane a little.“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”   
  


Margaery’s smile shrinks just a little. This game is quickly tiring her fast; she cuts to the chase. “Your boyfriend, the one who’s so head over heels in love with you, it’s Jon.”

And there it is.

Sansa says nothing. 

That works just fine for Margaery, because she’s not finished. She starts to pace, pointing at her. “There was  _ something _ about him when I saw him pick you up that day. He looked familiar. And then he was in that  _ car _ . That  _ awful _ car. It took me awhile, but I’d recognize your brother’s atrocious Mazda anywhere. he’s crazy about it. And who else would he trust enough to drive it?”   
  


Robb’s love for his cat wasn’t a secret, but it wasn’t exactly public either. Sansa wants to ask her how she knows, but she figures she’s deflected long enough. So she just sighs, and says. “What do you want?”   
  


That stops Margaery in her tracks. For the first time, something like a frown appears on her pretty face.“What do I want?”   
  


That takes Sansa aback, but she isn’t fooled by it for a second. She puts her hands on her hips. “You’re going to tell everyone, right? That’s why you brought me here.”   
  


“As if.” Margaery sneers. “What does that get me? Everyone finds out you’re dating a prince, and you get everything. The connections, the popularity. Queen in the north. Prom queen. You’re on top.”   
  


(Oh my gods.)

Sansa nearly does not save her jaw from unhinging.

_ (She actually thinks I’m dating Jon.) _

Margaery had uncovered the truth, alright, but the  _ wrong  _ one. She knew that Jon was the mystery college boyfriend, but she obviously never thought Sansa would go so far as to fake an entire relationship. And the pictures in the press, her reaction at the lunch table to Jon potentially having a girlfriend (which was genuine shock and nothing more) all just cemented the fact that her and Jon were actually a thing in Margaery’s mind. 

The luck Sansa has—

It surprises even  _ herself _ sometimes.

“What I don’t understand is…why?” Margaery says.

“What?” Sansa’s too much in shock to say anything else. 

“Why hide it? Like I said, this gets you everything. But here you are, begging me not to tell anyone.” Margaery gestures to her, bemused. “And I’ve seen the way you look at my brother.”   
  


She raises her eyebrows then, in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’re considering throwing all of that away for him.”    
  


The fact that she said that about her own brother, Sansa feels contempt rise in her throat on Loras’ behalf. She glares at her. “It’s not all about power for everyone, Margaery. Or what someone can do for you. Sometimes, you just really like someone.”

“......Right.” Margaery says, but like Sansa was  _ wrong. _ “Seems to me that Jon really likes you.”    
  


_ (And it’s better that way if you think that.) _

“Word of advice, Sansa,” Margaery twists a ring on her finger idly, biting the inside of her cheek. Loras isn’t the way to go.”   
  


Sansa blanches. She should have expected this conversation sooner or later. “What do you mean?”

“I mean….my brother…” For once, Margaery doesn’t look so smug. Her brown eyes are inscrutable. “I don’t think you two are a good fit.”   
  


Alys hadn’t been kidding about her being overprotective. And that, Sansa could not blame her for. She would do the same with any of her brothers. “Well–”   
  


“I’m not trying to be a bitch, or anything.” Margaery cuts her off, and she even looks serious. There’s no trace of anything malicious or ill intended in her eyes. “I’m just saying…it’s not a good idea. I know we aren’t the best of friends, but…you’re a nice girl. I don’t wanna see you get hurt.”   
  


_ Get hurt.  _ The words leave her mouth if her own accord. “You think Loras would hurt me?”   
  


Finally, Margaery does smile, but it’s sad, and unsettling. “Not intentionally.”   
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Favorite lines/Scenes/Characters? I wanna hear them all! Drop a comment below or come talk to me @jeynesgreyjoy on tumblr/Twitter.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	12. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa had thought it was wiser to get Alys’ reaction first anyway, as it was probably the more sane and logical one.
> 
> And it was. Too sane. Too logical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was late and my mouth hurt like a bitch while writing it (got my wisdom teeth taken out) AND I postponed my school work and stayed up until three in morning to post this.....don’t EVER say I don’t love y’all....
> 
> ENJOY!

**Sansa**

“Well, that’s as good of a sign as any.”   
  


Alys is the first person Sansa is able to tell about her confrontation with Margaery, and that’s only because they were in physics together right after lunch. She promises to fill Jeyne in, who didn’t have class with them, later on. Her and Alys walk into Mr. Wolkan’s classroom ten minutes before the bell rings and park themselves in the back of the room, furthest away from everyone who was already in there. 

Sansa had thought it was wiser to get Alys’ reaction first anyway, as it was probably the more sane and logical one.

And it was. Too sane. Too logical.

“Alys,” Sansa begins with a frown. 

“I’m just saying, Sansa.” Alys implores, cutting her off sharply. Her blue eyes are stern and as unyielding as ice. “It doesn’t strike you as a little odd that Margaery is self sabotaging herself? You ‘breaking’ up with Jon—” She uses finger quotes for the word breaking up, and whispers his name so no one around them can hear it. “And downgrading to Loras would ensure that she stays at the top where she belongs. Yet she’s encouraging you to do the exact opposite. What the fuck?”

What the fuck, is right. Margaery had never stretched out her neck for her before, and it seemed weird for her to start now, out of nowhere. It could be to gain Sansa’s favor, and through that, Jon’s, but wouldn’t the best way to do that just be setting her up with Loras in the first place?

“I don’t know what to think.” Sansa sighs at last. 

“I do.” Alys insists firmly. “He’s cute, but he’s a little too perfect. There’s gotta be some kind of catch.”   
  


Sansa knew all too well about everything not being as it seemed. Still, she smiles weakly, tries to think on the bright side. “Maybe that catch is a territorial sister.”   
  


Alys is not as much of an optimist. She raises her eyebrows. “Or maybe it’s that he’s bad news.”    
  


Before Sansa can think of anything to say to that, a backpack slams against the surface of the desk in front of her. She looks up to find Gendry of all people, Stone faced and sliding into the chair.

“Hey, Sansa.” Gendry says, but it’s all wrong. The smile she had seen him wear that morning was gone, and his blue eyes were hard. He gives Alys a look, one that wasn’t very subtle, and she takes the hint.

“Looks like that’s my cue.” She grumbles, picking up her binder. “I’m Audi.” 

Gendry waits until Alys is all the way on the other side of her doom, at her assigned seat, to speak. His voice is a little too high, a little too thin, and if Sansa didn’t know better, she would have thought he was nervous.

“I’ve got a problem.” 

“A problem.” Sansa repeats with a raised eyebrow, because she couldn’t think of what the hell they had to do with her.

Gendry runs a hand through his dark hair, biting his lip. “I guess your brothers told your Dad about me and Arya–”   
  


“You and Arya?” She prompts, trying not to smirk. 

“We’re—” Gendry blushes. It’s  _ more  _ than enough of an answer for her. “I don’t know. Fuck, I don’t know.”    
  


Maybe they don’t know, but they better find out soon. Sansa has pushed them together, but she couldn’t do all the work for them. Nevertheless, she doesn’t want to torture him anymore, so she stifles her grin, and waves a dismissive hand. “I think I get the gist of what you’re saying.”   
  


He seems relieved at that, and continues his words in a rush of breath. “Anyway, your dad calls up Arya during lunch, and she comes back, raging, and then she hands me the phone, and I’m like, what the fuck,  _ no _ , and she’s like,  _ yes _ , and then your dad invites me to dinner Thursday night.”   
  


_ Oh.  _ Of course she had been anticipating that Bran and Rickon would tell Dad, but not this soon. And judging from the paleness of Gendry’s voice, her father hadn’t been the most warm, and why should he be? An older boy coming to sweep his youngest daughter off her feet on a motorcycle? But as cold as he could be, her father was also all about giving people the benefit of the doubt.

Still, though.  _ Oh. _

Sansa hadn’t realized she had been speaking aloud. Gendry says in a bleak tone, “Yeah. Oh.”    
  


She doesn’t know what to make of that. “What’s the problem? Do you like, not wanna go, or—”   
  


“No.” Gendry blurts, before scratching at his jaw. He sighs, then.“Yes. Yes and no. I don’t know. I’m scared I’m gonna mess this up… I mess things up a lot.”   
  


Sansa knows that feeling all too well...

“Gendry, can I be honest?” She says earnestly. For a second, she thinks of patting his shoulder, but at the last minute, she hesitates.

He must here the sincerity in her voice anyways, because he looks even more vulnerable. He bites his lip, but then nods vigorously. “I can take it.”   
  


Sansa grins at him reassuringly. “As long as you’re being yourself, my dad’s gonna love you.”

“You think so?” He asks, disbelievingly, yet hopeful.

It would take some time, of course, as it had with Micah, maybe even more considering Gendry was older and already had quite the reputation, but if Sansa could see him for who he was, she had no doubt her father would. “I know so.”   
  


Gendry doesn’t seem any less nervous, but he does seem at least a bit calmer, and he takes a steadying breath, nodding at her. Before she can say anything else, the bell rings, and even more students begin to filter into the classroom, as Mr. Wolkan starts writing things on the whiteboard.

It’s only then does it occur to her that while she had eased Gendry’s worries, she hadn’t done anything to give herself comfort. Her stomach still churns, and she puts her chin into the crook of her elbow, as her forehead thuds against the desk.

What the hell could  _ she  _ do?

***

“Talk about cryptic.” Is all Jeyne has to offer her about the situation, later in the car.

It’s after school, and they’re heading down to Mel’s, where Ironborn was practicing for their upcoming show this friday, their first one since they had been home. Alys was at cheer practice, and for once, Jeyne didn’t have mathletes. She offered to drive Sansa home first, but she declined, wanting a chance to get her input on the situation, and kick Theon’s ass for riling up Robb so badly this weekend. 

“I know, right?” Sansa groans, running a hand through her hair. The more she went over her conversation with Margaery in her brain, the less sense it made. 

“She’s totally fucking with you, though.” Jeyne says confidently, taking a sip of her bubble tea from her straw, drumming perfectly manicured fingernails against the steering wheel. “Classic Margaery.”

“Maybe.” Sansa says, twisting her ring on her finger. “I just don’t know… What reason would she have for telling me to stay with Jon and not date Loras?”   
  


It was the same exact point Alys had brought up earlier, one she couldn’t stop thinking about, and Jeyne supplies the same exact answer Sansa did earlier, just more sure if it. 

“Because he’s her brother. She’s super protective over him. You’re kind of her arch nemesis.”   
  


“Yeah but… Telling me to continue dating Jon…”   
Sansa still couldn’t believe her luck in Margaery believing that lie, honestly, but it seemed it had only brought even more problem. She fumbles with the strap of her belt. “I thought she’d tell me to break up with him. Then I wouldn’t be as much of a threat.”

Jeyne has an answer for that, too. The car screeches to an abrupt stop in front of Mel’s, and she turns toward her, brown eyes searching. Her nose is scrunched up, too, as if she cannot possibly believe that Sansa is falling for this. 

“Of course she’s not gonna tell you outright.” Jeyne says, flipping her braids. “She knows you’d just buckle down. Basic reverse psychology, babe.”

She did have a point there, and it only makes Sansa even more confused. But she doesn’t have a chance to voice any of this, because Jeyne is unbuckling her seatbelt and slamming the door shut, greasy fast food bag clutched in her hand. Sansa hurries to unbuckle her own seatbelt, and scamper off after her.

Mel’s looks smaller in the daylight, more dingy and rundown. The closed sign is also switched on, and glaring brightly at them. It does not deter Jeyne one bit, as she slaps a hand impatiently against the peeling black door, until it cracks open, the tiniest bit. A vaguely familiar blue eye appears.

“Password?” A voice inquires.

Jeyne huffs, nostrils flaring delicately. “Go stick your fucking  _ dick  _ in a wood chipper, Mallister—”

A loud incredulous laugh interrupts the rest of what Sansa is sure to be the most terrible thing that has ever come out of Jeyne’s mouth, and while she is horrified, the guy at the entrance clearly is not. The door widens, revealing Theon’s fellow bandmate and former Queenscrown student, Patrek Mallister.

“Theon, it’s your girl!” He calls out, stepping aside. His face stretches into a wide grin at the sight of Sansa, and he envelops her into a side hug. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Red.”

“Hey, Pat.” Sansa smiles. He played bass for the band since the beginning, when it still had Robb and was going through a bunch of shit name changes. He was always nice enough. “Good to see you.”

“You too.” He says. His hair is actually a dark green now, a change from the sandy blonde he usually sported. He made it look pleasant, though. “You know Lucas?”

He juts a thumb to a dark haired boy sitting cross legged on top the bar, all lanky. His face was vaguely familiar, as she had seen it around the house a couple of times, and at school at least a dozen. Sansa finally recognizes him as the guy who replaced Robb as lead guitar when he left for college. Blackwood, his last name was, or something like that,

“Of course.” Sansa replies, waving. “Nice to see you again, Lucas.”

Lucas just offers her a nervous smile. She gets the sense that out of all of them, he was the quiet one out of the bunch. But with Theon, Patrek, and Dacey in one band, they could probably use some quiet. She likes him already.

Jeyne sidesteps the both of them, head swiveling around and searching for Theon. She doesn’t have to look far. He’s on stage, fiddling with a microphone stand. At the sight of her, he grins, jumping off the platform recklessly and bounding forward to kiss her. She stops him with a small hand to his chest, shoving the fast food bag in his hand.

“Your food.” Jeyne says stiffly, with a glare. She had been complaining fiercely while waiting for the order to be ready in the drive thru, as Theon claimed he was too busy preparing a bitching performance to get himself food.

But Sansa sees the way Jeyne’s iciness melts slightly as Theon takes the bag from her with a cheeky smile, pulling her into him by the wrist. He kisses her full on the mouth, without tongue, thankfully, but it was still something tender, something sweet, that Sansa felt like she had no business seeing. She blushes, averting her eyes until she hears someone whistling. She turns to find Dacey Mormont, their drummer, and Robb’s girlfriend for a week in ninth grade.

“Don’t ruin my appetite, you two.” She jokes. She waves at Sansa cheerfully. “Hey Sans, heard you were back in town.”

Before Sansa can think of a greeting to say back, Theon says, “Fuck off, Dace.” Theon says, but he’s not even looking at him. His arms are still around Jeyne. In her ear, he mutters, “Thanks, babe.”

Babe.

The softness of it, the tenderness, takes her back to last night, unbidden, when she was curled against a pillow and squinting into the dark with nothing to comfort her but Jon’s voice. It  _ pains  _ her, because suddenly, she wants nothing more than him beside her after this shitfest of a day, to hold her and call her baby. Her chest aches a little, and she nearly reaches for her phone with the intention to call him for the second time today until she remembers just why on earth she wanted to call him the first time–

Girlfriend.

Girlfriend?

It doesn’t occupy her thoughts for much longer, because Theon actually notices her presence. He smiles at her over Jeyne’s shoulder. “Hey Sans.”

It doesn’t take long for the memory of what he did to reappear in her head. Sansa narrows her eyes at him again. “Hey, traitor.”   
  


“Traitor.” Theon repeats, nonplussed. It baffles Sansa how he can sit there just looking so innocent. He slides into one of the booths with his food. “What’d I do this time?”    
  


“You nearly sent Robb into cardiac arrest.” Sansa hisses. She takes a quick look around, seeing that Dacey and Patrek are in conversation and Lucas is immersed in his phone. She steps forward, so that only Theon and Jeyne could hear her. “Why would you tell him that Jon— That he likes me?   
  


Theon doesn’t tense up, doesn’t grimace, doesn’t look the  _ least  _ bit fucking apologetic or remorseful. In fact, he only gets more relaxed. He actually laughs, before unwrapping his burger, and saying nonchalantly,  • “Because I thought he did.”   
  


Sansa scoffs loudly, ready to call bullshit, but then she turns to Jeyne, who looks just as amused, if not more exasperated. It causes her temper to flare, because just earlier, her friend was on her side. “Excuse me?”

“Can you blame him, Sansa?” Jeyne says, arching an eyebrow, and sliding into the booth next to Theon. “All the evidence points that way.”

“Evidence?” Sansa says, eye twitching.

“You know, the whole I hate you then I love you thing you guys got going on.” Theon says, taking a chomp out of his burger and speaking through mouthfuls of food “The way he mopes whenever you’re mad at him. The hand holding—”   
  


“It was either hold his hand or be lost in the crowd!” Sansa says defensively, which was true. Not counting all the other times they had held hands, but that was just to get him to understand, get  _ each other  _ to understand

“The matching outfits.” Jeyne smirks, cocking her head.

“You of  _ all  _ people know that wasn’t intentional!” She nearly shrieks,

“Oh,” Theon says, snapping his fingers, and then takes in a high pitched voice in an effort to mock her own. “ _ Jon’s not bad, Theon you’re so mean.” _ like ugh. Give me a break!”    
  


Sansa blushes. “I can’t defend him?”   
  


“What he’s saying,” Jeyne breaks in, attempting to prevent the budding argument she saw on the horizon. She gives Sansa a sympathetic look. “Is you can’t blame him for telling Robb that Jon is in love with you when like,  _ every _ rom com in the history of the universe is filled with those basic tropes. Enemies to lovers, and all that Jazz.”   
  


And didn’t she know that. 

Didn’t she  _ fucking  _ know that.

But this isn’t a movie, or a hannah Montana song. Jon is her brother’s best friend, yes, but he’s also family, basically. And a fucking prince besides that. She’s known him as the most annoying person on the planet since she was eight years old. He was  _ Jon.  _ She was  _ Sansa.  _ Things might have changed between them with everyone gone, just a little, but they’d never be like  _ that.  _ Be together like that.

“Well, this isn’t a movie.” Sansa says coldly, crossing her arms over her chest. “And I’m not in love with him.”

“Yeah, I know that now.” Theon scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Jeyne filled me in.”   
  


“You did what?” Sansa squeaks, at the same time Jeyne cringes. She’s almost ready to reach across the table to throttle her best friend, but Jeyne holds out her hands in a peacemaking gesture, beckoning her to calm down.

“I didn’t really have much of a choice!” Jeyne says hurriedly, and looks at her imploringly. “I just told him about the fake dating thing. He’s not gonna tell anybody.”   
  


Sansa seriously doubted that, as Theon making a few baseless conjectures with his big fat mouth is what got her into trouble with Robb in the first place, but he quickly interjects, dark eyes solemn.

“I’m not.” He says, and then sighs forlornly. “I already swore it on Dolly.”   
  


“Dolly?” Sansa inquires, confused.

“My guitar. Jeyne said she’d break it.”    
  


Jeyne looks at her smugly, as if to say she clearly had everything under control, and Sansa wants to believe her, truly, but Theon and Robb were still best friends.

“If you tell Robb—”    
  


“I won’t, jeez!” Theon grumbles, crumpling his trash and shoving it back into the empty bag. “He’s mad at me right now anyway.”   
  


Probably for sending him into a frenzy about her and Jon. In that moment, she could not have been more thankful for Theon’s penchant for gossip. That would guarantee that him and Robb wouldn’t talk for at  _ least  _ a week. But after that? She’d just have to see how good Theon was at keeping his word.

“Speaking of Robb,” Theon trails off, looking at Jeyne. He tugs at her legs until she’s all the way in her lap. She rolls her eyes, but settles in anyways, looping her arms around his neck. “Sweetheart.”

“Darling.” Jeyne croons teasingly, running a hand through his hair.

“He says you’re bullying him.”    
  


Jeyne snorts. “And?”

“That’s hot.” Theon tells her seriously.

Jeyne cackles, but Theon cuts it off with another kiss, tilting down her chin. She relaxes in his arms, and strangely, Sansa cannot help but feel annoyed. Did everyone just decide they were going to be sickeningly cute today? She feels more lonely than ever, and she hates it, because she wants nothing more to be happy for her friend.

“You still haven’t told me what you think I should do.”    
Sansa points out, after counting to sixty seconds and watching with surprise as they  _ still  _ don’t break from the embrace. 

Theon is the first to come up for air. His mouth is smudged with raspberry matte lipstick. It’s a good color on him. “About?” 

Her and Jeyne exchange a look, and realizing it didn’t matter now that he knew everything else, Sansa explains the trouble the press brought and what happened with Margaery this morning. It wasn’t that hard, as he already knew about the fake dating situation, just not about the kiss, which  _ thankfully _ , Jeyne had somehow managed to leave out. After she’s done, Theon just shakes his head, unconvinced. 

“Don’t listen to her, Sans.” He crows. “It was just mind games. You know how she works. She’s just trying to get in your head.”   
  


“Yeah.” Jeyne agrees firmly, nodding. “She’s obviously just protective over her brother.”   
  


“Yeah.” Sansa says, but it still doesn’t feel right. Not with Alys’ words from earlier still echoing in her head. What would she even have to gain from this?

“I’m telling you, it was a threat.” Theon insists, slamming his hands against the table. It jostles Jeyne in his lap. “Territorial shit. Trust me. I know women.”   
  


Jeyne snickers. “No, you don’t.”   
  


“Think I know you pretty well.” Theon counters, nibbling at her jawline. She makes a sound of mock disgust, but only snuggles closer into him. 

“I say you still go for it, Sansa.” She declares. “You’re in way too deep. Don’t stop now.”   
  


“Yeah.” Theon adds emphatically. “Don’t tell me you’ve been making me write this shit for nothing.”   
  


“They aren’t shit.” Jeyne argues, scowling at him. “They’re romantic. You could learn a thing or two from them.”   
  


“I write all my songs about you.” Theon gapes in incredulity, throwing his hands up in the air. “You’re my eternal muse. What more do you want from me, woman?”

“I’ve told you over and over again to stop calling me woman, for starters—”

A bout of bickering ensues, leaving Sansa lost in her own thoughts. She realized they were right, though, both of them. After all the work she had put in these past few months, all the trouble she gone through—

_ (I’m so close. I can’t stop now.) _

_ *** _

Everything—

It all just continues, really.

The plan to snatch up Loras. Her and Margaery’s dancing around each other. It’s all surprisingly uneventful, as is the rest of the week, save for Arya trying to get Ned to uninvite Gendry to dinner on Thursday. The conversation always ends up with her storming away and Bran and Rickon barely containing their laughter. Sansa had to admit, Thursday was something she was excited for as well. The day approaches fast, and during second period, Sansa finds herself in the gym setting up for the assembly with the rest of student council, and gossiping about it with Alys and Jeyne.

“He’s hella nervous.” Alys whispers to them, tearing off a piece of blue tape for a poster. “I can tell.”

“He’ll be fine.” Sansa repeats for what feels like the millionth time, but she can’t tell if she’s saying to reassure her friend or herself. While she was sure that her father and Gendry would get along fine, her nerves were getting the better of her at the last minute. 

“Your dad is pretty scary.” Jeyne says with a grin, shaking out some glitter onto the white poster she had on the floor.

“So is Gendry.” Sansa says.

They all share a laugh, but before they can say anything else, the door to the gym opens. Meera comes bouncing in, as cheerful as ever, long black hair swinging from her ponytail. Behind her, a girl follows, clearly an underclassman. 

“Fresh meat.” Edric says low enough for only their group to hear, voice intentionally deep sounding. Smalljon lets out a laugh. 

“Just the people I was looking for.” Meera announces, and she shoots a quick no nonsense glare at Edric and Smalljon, and their laughter dies immediately. “I wanted you guys to meet Beth, our new student.”

Beth, the name of the underclassman practically cowering behind her. She’s tiny, and her hair is strawberry blonde. Her eyes are big and brown, but sweet, and her clothes, are oversized and nearly swallow her whole. She offers up a small shy smile, and a half hearted wave. 

Sansa takes a liking to her immediately.

“She looks like she could be a farmer in those clothes.” Sansa bears someone mutter behind her, and turns to find Margaery leaning into Ros and Wylla. The latter at least  _ tries  _ to stifle her laughter, but Ros doesn’t. Sansa narrows her eyes at them, but they don’t pay her any mind.

“Beth, these are my friends,” Meera says, gesturing to each of them in turn. “Wylla, Margaery, Ros, Smalljon, Edric, Loras, Alys, Jeyne, and Sansa.”   
  


Sansa does her best to grin at the girl, and is pleased when she receives a pink cheeked smile back. 

“All of them are in ASB too, so you can go to them in case you’re having trouble with anything.”   
Meera explains with a bright smile. Just as she’s about to go into the benefits of knowing members of the student council, Sansa turns to her friends, a plan forming in her head.

“Guys, Look at her!” She says, eyes widening. “She’s so adorably clueless.”   
  


“Poor thing.” Alys agrees, frowning sympathetically, while Jeyne just snorts, peering down at her manicure. Sansa grabs her hand, trying to refocus her attention.

“Our mission here is clear!” She exclaims eagerly. “We’ve  _ got _ to adopt her.”   
  


“Sans.” Jeyne says in disbelief, mouth gaping slightly. She flicks a gaze at the stray in question, and she clearly doesn’t like what she sees. “She is toe up. Our stock would  _ plummet _ .”   
  


“Oh come on, Jeyne!” Alys pouts, crossing her arms over her chest disapprovingly. “Don’t you wanna use your popularity for a good cause?”   
  


“No!” Jeyne shoots back, unmoved.

“Majority rules, J.” Sansa sings, tugging at her arm. “It’ll be fun! You’ll see.”

“I’m  _ tired  _ of seeing.” She huffs, collapsing into the bleachers. But the fight is gone from her stance. She throws them one last glare. “Majority  _ sucks. _ ”

***

“Majority still sucks.” Jeyne complains to them at lunch, as they’re standing before the entrance of the cafeteria. 

“Quiet, you.” Alys warns her, pointing her finger. She then nudges Sansa. “Hey, isn’t that her? At your two o’clock?”

It was indeed, Beth, fidgeting in that godawful black and white flannel, while standing next to a trash can. Her hazel eyes are wide, and she looks pitiful. Instantly, Sansa fixes a grin on her face and calls out to her.

“Hey Beth! Over here!”

Beth’s ears perk up at her name, but even still, she does a double take to make sure she’s the one being asked for, a frown on her face. Sansa nods patiently, beckoning her again. “Yes, you! Come hang with us!”   
  


Beth scurries over, shoulders hunched forward. She looks at Sansa, curiously, but quickly casts her eyes down at the floor nervously. She mumbles, “Hi.”

“Hey!” Sansa greets, sticking out her hand. “I’m Sansa, if you don’t remember:”

“I remember.” Beth says quickly. After realizing how fast she says it, she blushes, rushing to amend her statement. “I just meant… I know you. Already. Of you, anyway. My cousin. He works for the prince. He was hired by your father. Jory.”   
  


“Oh!” Sansa brightens. No wonder her hazel eyes had seemed so familiar. “I adore him.”

Even if the praise is not directed at her, Beth beams all the same.

“How do you like Queenscrown so far?” It’s Alys who speaks this time, tone just as casual and kind. Jeyne still says nothing, but at the very least, she looks politely disinterested.

“I’m freakin.” Beth gushes nervously, biting her lip. “I’ve never been at a school this nice before.”   
  


“Don’t worry.” Sansa says breezily, winking at her. “We’ll show you the ropes.”   
  


And that is what they spend most of lunch doing, walking around campus, giving Beth the 411 on all the students that Meera might not have included in her tour. Jeyne even warms up to her, as Sansa knew she would, because it was simply impossible not to. Beth was sweet, a little on the reserved side, and eager to please. With the right people in her corner, she could do well for herself at Queenscrown.

And the right  _ clothes,  _ of course.

“There’s my boyfriend, Sigorn,” Alys says proudly, pointing to the bench under the tree where Arya and Gendry sat not so long ago. It was currently occupied by all of the soccer team. Sigorn notices her pointing, and waves at them. She blows him a kiss. “Ain’t he cute?”   
  


“Wow.” Beth sighs dreamily.

“If you’re gonna date any high school boy, those are the only acceptable bunch.” Sansa directs. If she hadn’t known all of them forever, it’s probably what she’d be doing. 

“Which ones are your guys’ boyfriends?” Beth turns to her and Jeyne.

“Mine graduated two years ago.” Jeyne says, and it's her turn to be proud. “Theon Greyjoy. Lead singer of Iron Born.”    
  


“Wow.” Beth says again, in even more awe. Her eyes could have popped out of her head, they were so wide. She manages to close her mouth when they find a table to sit down at.

“And little miss perfect over here–” Jeyne teases, nudging Sansa.

“She has attitude about high school boys.” Alys cuts in with an eye roll, but she leans her head on Sansa’s shoulder so she knows that she’s only playing.

“Not all of them.” Sansa says defensively, Loras immediately coming to mind. As if they could hear her thoughts, Alys and Jeyne burst into uncontrollable giggles. Beth looks confused, but she smiles all the same, standing up.

“I’m gonna go get a drink. You guys want?”   
  


“Sure.” They all say in unison. They wait until she leaves, and huddle together, whispering to each other. 

“She’s nice.” Jeyne says begrudgingly, a smile sneaking onto her lips.

“Told you.” Alys says, poking her cheek.

“Isn’t it exciting?” Sansa practically bounces in her seat. “To do something for the greater good?”   
  


Jeyne sighs defeatedly. “I guess.”   
  


“What are you three gossiping about?”   
  


They turn to find Loras of all people, joining their table. Under it, Jeyne pinches her leg excitedly, Sansa smacks her hand away.

_ (As if my nerves aren’t already bad enough.) _

“Beth. The new kid.” Sansa replies coolly, gesturing to the girl in question, standing at one of the food carts.

“Oh yeah.” Loras says, eyebrows raising in surprise. “Taking her under your wing?”

Sansa bats her eyelashes. “Something like that. “   
  


“Who knew you were so charitable?” Loras teases, a dimple flashing. Sansa blatantly resists the urge to just sigh longingly and rest her chin in her hand and stare at him.

_ (Did he have to be so beautiful?) _

_ (Like really?) _

“So listen.” Loras begins, drumming long brown fingers against the table. “Saturday’s the homecoming dance, right?”    
  


Sansa straightens her shoulders immediately, at attention. A dance, he was asking her about a dance. Not the one she wanted him to ask her about, but still, this was a start. Seniors didn’t really go to homecoming, but if Loras wanted her to, she’d sure as hell try her best to find a dress as soon as possible. “Yeah. Right.”

“I’m thinking of ditching.” Loras says, scratching at his chin. “Marge and Wylla told me it was fucking lame, anyway.”   
  


That was true, and it was why mostly underclassmen went, anyway. But it still causes her to deflate, anyway. Why was he even asking her about it in the first place, then? “Okay...”

“But I figured you’d know all the cool places to go on a Saturday night.” Loras smiles at her. “We should hang out.”   
  


(Oh.)

(Oh.)

“Sure.” Sansa says, not too quickly, because that would be absurdly fucking desperate. She makes sure her answer sounds nonchalant, and measured. “If I’m not busy, or anything.”

Under the table, Jeyne kicks her, and Sansa barely bites back a hiss. When she turns to glare at her friend, she’s met with dark brown eyes staring at her beseechingly, telling her something like:

Do NOT fuck this up.

Just as Sansa is going to communicate that’s exactly what she was trying not to do, no thanks to her, with her eyes, Jeyne takes matters into her own hands.

“Theon’s having this show at Mance’s. Turnout is supposed to be massive.” She says. “But I think I could sneak you guys in, if you wanted.”    
  


“Really?” Loras gapes. “Gods— That’d be dope.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Jeyne smirks.

Sansa could have kissed her at that moment.

“Great. It’s a date then, Duchess.” Loras announces, knocking against the table. Just like that, he’s gone, leaving the table with nothing more than an easy going smile, and Sansa is trying to remember how to fucking  _ breathe,  _ because oh my gods, oh my  _ gods— _

“I’m going out on a date with Loras on Saturday night.” She says, more to herself than anyone else.

Jeyne starts shrieking excitedly, gripping her shoulders and bouncing up and down, and Sansa joins in, giggling. Alys doesn’t seem as excited, as she was quiet during the whole exchange. But still, she smiles when Sansa wraps her arms shoulders and starts shaking her.

“My eardrums are going to bleed.” Alys feigns a whine, halfway laughing.

“Well they can wait to bleed until after Sansa’s date with Loras.” Jeyne sings, doing a little dance in her seat. “Oh my gods, what are you gonna wear? What are you gonna do with your hair?”

All brilliant questions, honestly, and each was just as important as the other, but all Sansa could think about was her conversation with Margaery earlier that week. She had said she wasn’t going to tell anyone about her and Jon, but Sansa wasn’t sure if that extended to Loras. But clearly it did, because he had acted normal all week, as if nothing was amiss, and now asking her on a date?

Why?

Everything was just going way too perfectly.

“What are we celebrating?” Beth says, upon her return back to the table. She had three diet cokes in her hand, and she passes one to each of them, keeping a water for herself. 

Jeyne opens her mouth, probably to spill the beans, but Sansa cuts her off, a new plan forming in her mind. “We were just talking and we had the  _ best _ idea.”   
  


“What?” Beth asks, eager to be in the know.

“A makeover!” Sansa cheers, clapping her hands. Jeyne and Alys both look at her in confusion. Beth looks just as lost as they do, and even more unsure.

“A makeover?”   
  


“When I left for King’s Landing, It was a chance to reinvent myself. The first thing I did was get a makeover.” Sansa says.

It wasn’t exactly true, as she didn’t need one as drastic as Beth did, but she didn’t wanna sound mean, and all she wanted was for Beth to take pride in her appearance and be more confident in herself in a way she wished she had been at her age. 

_ (The nicest thing I could do for her, really.) _

“Really?” Beth asks, seeming to warm up to the idea. 

“Yes!”   
  


“I… I don’t know.”   
  


“Aw, come on!” Sansa pouts.

Alys catches on that she might need a little more coaxing, and leans forward, putting in, “Sansa’s main thrill in life is a makeover.” 

Jeyne nods, agreeing. “It gives her a sense of control in a world full of chaos. And she’s really good at it.”   
  


“Please?” Sansa begs again, poking out her lower lip even further. She probably put Rickon to Shane. 

“Fine!” Beth relents, throwing up her hands with a shrug. “What’s the worst could happen?”

Sansa, Jeyne, and Alys all whoop in victory, high giving each other with a giggle. Beth looks a little more excited now, clasping her hands together under her chin. It looks almost cherubic. 

“You guys… I’ve never had straight friends before!”   
  


Their laughter dies abruptly, and the three girls exchange a look.

_ (Beth might need a little more help than I thought.) _

***

The end of the school day approaches fast. Sansa is able to weasel out of going to fifth period because she had a student council meeting, arranging the finishing touches for the assembly tomorrow. She lets Margaery take the lead on that, though, spending most of her time doodling designs in her sketchbook that she thought would compliment Beth. She was tiny, with what looked like an hourglass figure most would be jealous of. When she had went to the fabric store with Jon last week, she had purchased a dark blue fabric for Arya, but it would look stunning on Beth as well, even with her reddish hair. Jon said he liked it, and he originally thought Sansa would be wearing it, and her hair was a lot more red—

_ (I like your hair.)  _

Jon. That’s who Sansa finds herself thinking about, trailing Jeyne on the way to her car and listening to her chatter. She hadn’t talked to him since that phone call on Sunday night, and had nearly dialed his phone number half a hundred times since then. She’s always able to stop herself though, thankfully, but the ache in her chest is starting to spread, and if she didn’t know any better, she’d think his absence caused it.

For the thousandth time, Sansa finds herself wishing he would appear beside her, and annoy her. Tug on her ponytail. Call her materialistic, or baby, or something—

It’d just be really nice to hear his voice about now.

“Hey! Jeyne! Sansa!” 

Both of the girls turn to find Loras leaning against his car, a sleek black Mercedes. It was a strange sight, considering he was usually at practice at this time. He wasn’t even dressed in workout clothes.

Jeyne is the one who chooses to inquire. “Hey. Practice canceled?”

“Nah.” Loras shakes his head. “Doctor’s appointment. Getting a last check up on my ankle to make sure I’m all good for the game.”

“Oh.” Sansa says, searching for something to say that didn’t sound completely stupid. It still hadn’t really sunk in that she’d be going on a  _ date  _ with him on Saturday night. “Hope everything works out.”

“It will.” Loras says, in a way so confident it reminds her of Robb. “I’m sure of it. You guys headed home?”

“Actually,” Jeyne says, just as Sansa is about to answer yes. “I have mathletes, and its running a little late this evening. I was just helping Sansa get her stuff out my car so she could call someone to come pick her up.”

_ What?  _ Mathletes was  _ canceled _ today, and it was exactly why they were headed to the car this early in the first place. Sansa doesn’t know just what Jeyne is up to, and she’s about to accuse her of ditching her to go sneak off with Theon when Loras cuts in.

“Oh! I can take you, if you want.” He offers.

Jeyne smirks at her imperceptibly.

And that’s when it  _ hits her.  _

_ (You sneaky bitch.) _

_ (You sneaky, lovely, bitch.) _

“That’d be great.” Sansa says, nodding. She stops herself short so she doesn’t look like a bobble head, her heart is racing, and her stomach is swarming with butterflies. She hopes her cheeks aren’t as hot as they feel.“Thanks.”

If they are, Loras pays it no mind. He smiles, and leans over to open the door for her. “Hop in.” 

_ What a gentleman. _

“See you tomorrow.” Sansa says to Jeyne, hating the way her voice cracks.

“I sure hope so.” Jeyne says, only low enough for the two of them to hear, voice hushed and excited. “Call me when you get home  _ immediately. _ ”

***

Alys is gonna kill her, Sansa knows.

But in the car with Loras, Sansa cannot find it in herself to care. He’s easy to talk to, surprisingly so. They like all the same movies, and music. There’s a few things they don’t agree on, like the fact that he prefers Rihanna’s ANTI to Beyoncé’s Lemonade, and the fact that he prefers Dolly Parton to the Dixie chicks, but they agree on everything else that matters. He makes her laugh, a lot, and he’s not afraid to crank the radio up entirely too loud and just sing at the top of his lungs. 

But she sees hints of Margaery there, too. Like when he talks about his scholarship offers, and the reach. He misses it, more than anything, and he misses someone there too. Sansa can see it. She wonders if that’s the broken heart the rumors claimed to be running from.

She knew all about broken hearts.

Loras lets out a low whistle as they begin to pull into the driveway of her house. “Nice digs.”   
  


“Thanks.” Sansa smiles. 

“Mind if I use the restroom?” Loras inquires.

“Sure.” Sansa says instantly. She’s finally got Loras to herself for once, and she didn’t wanna let him go just yet. He was fun to hang out with. “I’ll show you where it is.”

It’s only when she’s leading Loras up the cobblestone driveway does she recognize the black SUV parked next to her father’s car. How did she not see it before? Her heart plummets.

_ (Fuck.) _

It takes a few tries to jam her key in the doorway, her hands are fucking shaking, and as soon as she does, she grabs Loras by the hand and tugs him all the way up the stairs, lighting past by the study, where her father was.

Where  _ Jon  _ was.

“Sansa, is that you?” Ned calls.

“Yeah, Daddy!” Sansa says levelly. “It’s just me!”

Loras raises his eyebrows at that, but Sansa pointedly ignores that. She opens the door to her room and points to the bathroom. “There it is. Make it quick.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, and slams the door in his face.

_ What the fuck? What the fuck?  _ Of all days she got lucky, and got to bring Loras home, Jon had to be here too? Seriously? Of course this had to happen. Things were going entirely too great today. Something just had to be fucked up.

This was a big fuck up.

Sansa doesn’t really understand  _ why, _ though.

But the thought of Jon and Loras in the same vicinity makes her stomach churn, like it had the time she had cheated on her spelling test in first grade. Her and Jon had just gotten into a huge fight about Loras last weekend. He was being over protective. And Sansa didn’t  _ need  _ that, especially when they were just coming off rumors that they were dating.

Impatient to get him the hell out of her house, Sansa opens the door to her room. She finds Loras standing in the corner of her room, staring at the wall, hands damp from washing them.

“Your workshop, I’m guessing?” He asks.

The awe in his face takes her aback, and she frowns. “Yep.”   
  


“Sansa, this is amazing. You’re crazy talented.”   
  


“It wasn’t just me.” She shrugged, flushing at the praise, “It is as much Jeyne’s work as it is mine.” 

“Then you’re both amazing and crazy talented.” Loras says, smiling softly. “You’re gonna take over the world someday.”

She had gotten compliments on her clothes before, but never from a guy, and especially not like this. She didn’t even think they noticed things like that. It makes her like him even more. “Thanks.”   
  


Loras bites the inside of his cheek, pulling at the sleeve of his cable knit sweater. “I wanted to ask you something.”   
  


_ (He wants to ask me something.) _

_ (This is it.) _

_ (Is he going to ask me to the winter formal?) _

Sansa resists the urge to hold her breath. “Oh. Okay.”   
  


“So I was thinking… Big game’s tomorrow.” 

Not about the winter formal. But that was okay, it was still months away. They still had time. Still, Sansa can’t help but deflate again. She prompts, “Yeah,” 

“It’s apparently a tradition to have a girl wear your away jersey for good luck.” Loras says, “I was wondering if you’d be my good luck charm.”   
  


_ (Oh.) _

No, this wasn’t a winter formal invite, but he had already asked her on a date. And this was something better, anyway. His jersey. A step toward making this relationship an actual  _ thing.  _ Girlfriends always wore their boyfriends jersey’s. Jeyne Westerling always wore Robb’s to big games when they were dating.

Sansa can’t help but smile widely. “I’d like that.”   
  


Loras tweaks her chin good naturedly. “Knew I could count on you.”   
  


Sansa leads Loras back downstairs floating on cloud nine, with a little more skip in her step. Loras asked her to wear his jersey. Loras asked her on a date. Soon enough, she’d be  _ Loras’  _ girlfriend. She really  _ did  _ have the best luck in the world sometimes—

And the worst.

Because at that moment, Rickon appears at the bottom of the doorstep.

“Who are you?” He asks Loras rudely.

Sansa flinches, but after realizing it was just her little brother, her fear recedes, she clasps her hand to her chest. “Seven hells, Rickon. You scared me.”   
  


“Don’t try to change the subject.” Rickon says, hands on his hips. He glares up at Loras. “I asked you a question.”

She had originally been relieved that it was Rickon and not Jon at the bottom of the state’s, but Sansa it quickly realizing this might be just as bad.

“I’m Loras.” Loras says, leaning down to stick his hand out. “Nice to meet you.”    
  


His Tyrell dimples do nothing to impress Rickon. He remains unimpressed. It shocks her how much he looks like their father, in that moment. 

Loras straightens up awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ll— Uh, go get the jersey out of the car.”

“What is wrong with you?” Sansa snaps, as soon as the door shuts and she’s left alone with her brother. Her whip like tone doesn’t bring forth any of the guilt and shame it usually does.   
  


“Did he just come out of your room?”

“He had to use the  _ bathroom. _ ” Sansa snaps, and curses herself, because she shouldn’t have to explain herself to a nine year old. 

“Is he your boyfriend?”   
  


“That’s  _ none _ of your business.”   
  


And the thing about Rickon is—

_ Everything _ is his business.

He smirks. “Maybe not. But it is Dad’s.”   
  


Before Sansa can even lunge forward to stop him, Rickon steps back, and shouts loud enough for everyone to hear,  “DAD! SANSA SNUCK A BOY INTO HER ROOM!”   
  


The way it all happens—

It’s like a car crash. Too terrible to look away. 

Ned comes out of the study, bleary eyed and suspicious, and Jon follows him, fucking  _ Jon.  _ Even Bran emerges from the living room, Sansa’s words stick at the back of her throat, and dread starts to curdle in her stomach. Jon looks at her, and she  _ can’t— _

She can’t look away.

“What’s going on here?” Ned demands.

“Nothing.” Sansa answers, at the same time Rickon says “Fornicating.” Jon’s eyes widen.

She wants to  _ die  _ on the spot.

"Sansa had a boy in her room.” Rickon says smugly.

“A boy?” Bran questions, a teasing lilt in his voice.

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Sansa says, or more like, whispers, because she can’t make her voice any louder when all she wants to do is shrink underneath Jon’s gaze. It’s heavy. Unreadable. She hates it. Everything about it.

“I do too.” Rickon argues, nose scrunching up in indignation. 

It’s that moment, of course, Loras chooses to walk back into the house with the jersey in hand. 

And Sansa has to give him credit.

He doesn’t wilt under pressure. Just takes it all in. The family of his date all gathered in one room, along with a prince of Westeros. A smooth smile slides into place, his shoulders straighten, and it's her father he approaches first. “Hello. You must be Mr. Stark.”   
  


“I am.” Ned says gruffly.” And you are?”   
  


“Loras Tyrell, sir.” He offers his hand. “Nice to meet you.”   
  


Her father’s face immediately softens, somehow, loses some of its edge, and Sansa knows exactly the cause. “Oh. You’re related to Margaery?”   
  


_ (Westeros’ fucking sweetheart, everyone, Margaery Tyrell) _

“Guilty. I’m her twin brother.”   
  


They shake hands, and it’s a good one, Sansa thinks. It’s not too long, and not too firm. “Good to meet you, Loras.”   
  


The nice interaction makes her relax a little. 

A  _ little _ . 

For like two seconds. Because it’s Jon who Loras goes to greet next. 

He even  _ bows.  _ “It’s truly an honor, Your Grace.”   
Loras says solemnly.

Jon doesn’t say anything. Just stares at him.

She’s pretty sure it’s the coldest stare she’s ever seen in her life.

It’s blank. Impersonal. It makes even  _ her,  _ squirm, and she’s not the focus of its attention. Until he turns to her. That stare is blank too, but a different kind of blank because it’s full of  _ heat,  _ a scorching kind that Sansa cannot even begin to explain. And then he looks away, tipping his head up to the ceiling, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else but there in that moment.

(Sansa knew the feeling.)

Loras takes the hint, but before he can try to awkwardly back away, his phone starts ringing. He slides it out of his pocket, and bites his lip. 

“Sorry, that’s my mom. She’s just making sure I’m on my way to my doctor’s appointment. I better get going.” 

“You should.” Sansa says quickly, leaping at the opportunity. She grabs his arm to lead him to the door. I’ll see you tomorrow.”   
  


“Tomorrow.” Loras agrees, but then stops short, handing her the jersey. “Don’t forget. You’re my lucky charm.”    
  


She can feel a pair of eyes glaring holes into her back. Quietly, she says, “Yep.”

“It was nice meeting you sir.” Loras says to Ned, who actually  _ smiles  _ at him, as forced as it is. It’s a start.

“You too. I hope I see you around more often.”   
  


Sansa still can’t breathe, even when the door is shut behind him. 

“Nice boy.” Ned says. “Just make sure you give me a heads up the next time there’s a boy in the house.”

“I liked him.” Bran says, while Rickon makes a noncommittal noise and marches off to the PlayStation, clearly annoyed he didn’t get the drama he wanted.

“I need a cigarette.”   
  


Sansa turns to find Jon already heading for the backdoor as soon as the words were uttered. The breeze he leaves is cold, and the door is slammed with a little more force than is necessary. 

She contemplates going outside after him.

(She doesn’t.)

***

With all that happened the minute she came home, Sansa forgets that Gendry is supposed to come over for dinner until he’s sitting across from her at the table.

He’s dressed nicely, or as nice as he could get, in a dark gray sweater and jeans. He brought flowers, which Arya nearly threw in the trash, but Sansa salvages and puts them in a vase. He’s nervous, but he’s good at hiding it, at least better than Arya, who is a bouncing ball of nerves. The handshake Gendry receives from their father is long, and a little too hard. It’s a miracle he doesn’t wince.

_ (This is going to be a long night.) _

“Dinner looks great, Mr. Stark.” Gendry says, gesturing to the spaghetti on his plate. 

“It was all Nan’s doing.” Ned says, tone aloof. His face is perfectly impassive. “And Arya picked the menu. I’m told spaghetti is your favorite meal.”

Gendry looks at Arya, who is blushing, and the smile they share is something Sansa knows she’s not supposed to see. It makes her feel all warm inside, to see them both so happy.

Somewhere in the house, a glass door shuts, and footsteps squeak against the tile, Jon comes into the dining room, back from his two hour long smoke break, not any less broody than when he left. Nobody even acknowledges him, save for Gendry, who stands abruptly, and bows.

“Your Grace.”   
  


“You’re Gendry?” Jon asks. Two more words than Loras had gotten. Sansa was glad for at least that. She hoped Jon wouldn’t pull the overprotective bit with Arya, because Gendry would need to save all his strength for their father.

“Yes.” Gendry says, and then unexpectedly he  _ squints,  _ looking down at Jon from head to toe.

He notices. “What?”

“Nothing.” Gendry says quickly, blushing. “You just look… Shorter in person.”   
  


And Jon  _ snorts. _

Not just a snort, but he actually fucking  _ laughs,  _ and claps him on the shoulder before sitting down on Arya’s other side. Not one stony look. Not one pout. An entire pleasant exchange. 

He could do that with Gendry, who drove a motorcycle, and looked like he took steroids and kicked puppies for a living, but he couldn’t do that with Loras? _ Sweet, polite, Loras?  _

Sansa  _ feels  _ her temper spike. Just a bit.

It’s all Sansa can think about, the entire dinner. She chimes in when she can, laughs at all the appropriate moments, fills in the awkward silence, but there’s not a lot of those, because Jon does that. He gets along with Gendry swimmingly, and seeing that, Ned starts to warm up to him as well. But Sansa is still stuck on what went wrong earlier. Why on earth Jon was acting like things were just fine and dandy with Gendry, but acted like Loras pissed in his Cheerios when if anything, he was  _ way  _ nicer. 

And on top of that, it’s like he knows that’s what she’s thinking, because during dinner, Jon doesn’t look at her once.

She had been thinking about him all week, resisting the urge to call him, and the first time she sees him, he’s an asshole to her friend, and completely ignores her existence afterwards.

She had  _ missed  _ him, and she was regretting it sorely.

Just as Nan is preparing dessert in the kitchen, Sansa pushes all those thoughts to the side. She sees the lull in conversation and seizes the opportunity to at least make one thing work out in her favor tonight.

“So, Daddy, I was thinking…”   
  


“Oh no.” Arya quips.

Sansa ignores that one, as much as she wants to snap back. Not in front of company. “Theon’s band has this gig downtown on Saturday night.”   
  


“Theon?” Ned says in surprise. “I didn’t know he was even back in town.”   
  


“He got here like last month.” Sansa explains.

“Theon?” She watches Gendry lean in and ask Arya quietly. 

“My brother Robb’s best friend.” Arya says, taking a sip of her iced tea. “He’s the lead singer of Ironborn.”   
  


“Ironborn Theon Greyjoy?” Gendry exclaims, in awe. That’s one thing him and Loras had in common. “You never told me you knew him.”   
  


Arya scoffs, “It’s not something I’m proud of.”   
  


“I was actually wondering if I could go.” Sansa speaks up, smiling sweetly at her father. 

“Downtown? On Saturday night?” Ned frowns, wiping at his mouth. He doesn’t look like he’s too convinced but he doesn’t look against it, either. “Who else is going?”   
  


“Well, Jeyne, of course.” Sansa says, figuring she’d start with people he knew the most first. “Alys and Sigorn will be around. And Margaery, Wylla...” She braces herself for a negative reaction, holding her chin high. “...And Loras.”   
  


Silverware clatters against the plate.

That prickling feeling on the side of her face is back. She sees a dark head turn in her peripheral.

_ (Oh, so now you look at me?) _

“And who’s driving you?” Ned asks.

She repeats his name a little bit more measuredly this time. “Loras.”   
  


“She can’t go.”   
  


Sansa turns her head in Jon’s direction so fast it  _ hurts.  _ “What?”   
  


“Same time as Rickon’s soccer banquet.” He’s looking at her with that annoyingly blank stare again. “Or did you forget about that?”   
  


Sansa narrows her eyes.

“Here we go.” Bran mutters from beside her, into his cup of water.

“I didn’t forget.” Sansa snaps. “I’ve been to every single one he’s had since I’ve been home. What is missing one gonna do?”   
  


She  _ had  _ forgotten about this one, granted, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. The same point still stood, anyway. She had been to every single one of his games and sports banquets. She could miss  _ one,  _ couldn’t she?

“I don’t know.” Jon scoffs. “Why don’t you ask him? Or did you not plan on doing that at the very least?”

Sansa blushes. Beside her, Rickon wiggles in his seat nervously.

“Did anyone try the chicken salad?” Bran proclaims with a shaky laugh. “ I thought the chicken salad was lovely–”   
  


“I would have been missing it for homecoming, anyway.” Sansa interjects, voice rising. “They’re on the same night.” 

She didn’t see  _ what  _ the big deal was. Sansa suddenly wonders that if the roles were reversed, and it was Arya wanting to go somewhere with Gendry, would he be putting up as much of a fight? Probably not, seeing as they were all chummy now. But maybe it just came down to the fact that he’d let Arya get away with murder, if it ever came down to it.

_ (He always liked her better.)  _

“You would have abandoned your little brother for that, too?”   
  


Sansa’s blood boils inside of her, and it causes words to bubble up in her throat, and overflow, and say things.  _ Mean  _ things she would never say, normally, but her chest was tight and tears were burning in her eyes and—

“You wanna talk to me about abandoning family.  _ Really _ ?”   
  


Jon flinches, and it’s finally there, a glimpse of emotion, of  _ hurt,  _ but it doesn’t feel good at all, it just makes Sansa  _ hurt _ , and she lets out a shaky breath.

“Hey.” Arya snaps, voice as sharp as barbed wire, and eyes as cold as glaciers. “Cut it out.”

“Alright.” Ned says quietly, with a beleaguered sigh. It’s a warning, before his voice usually rises, but they don’t stop.

They’re too far beyond the point of return.

“It’s not the same.” Jon says icily. “Nowhere near the same.”   
  


“You’re right.” Sansa says, glaring at him. “Because that’s not what I’m doing.”   
  


“Looks like it to me.” Jon snarls. “Passing up Rickon for some rich jerk–”   
  


“You don’t even know him!” Sansa shouts. “And from where I’m standing  _ you’re _ the jerk. He said hi to you and you just  _ walked _ away—”   
  


Jon lets out a hard laugh. “It was more polite than what I  _ wanted _ to do.”   
  


Sansa stands up, slamming her hands against the table and pushing her chair back. “You’re  _ unbelievable _ .”   
  


Jon stands up as well, voice rising. “Gods, I can’t  _ win _ with you–”   
  


“ENOUGH.”   
  


And now Ned is standing, voice loud and echoing in the dining room. Everyone shrinks back, but no more than Sansa and Jon, who immediately find their seats again. Ned does not, his face just as hard as his voice.

“I won’t put up with this any longer.” He says, voice deceptively soft. “It has been like this since you were both younger. This back and forth, love and hate, and I’m tired. I am tired.”   
  


Tired.

Sansa’s eyes are hot and her throat burns with shame and all she wants to do is lie down and not wake up for awhile. 

Tired sounds about right.

“You two are  _ adults _ bickering like six year olds. Get over it, and quick, before I treat you like six year olds and lock you in a room together until you get along.”   
  


Gods, that was more than enough motivation for her. 

Sansa clears her throat again, not daring to look up from the tablecloth. “May I be excused?”   
  


There’s silence, and for a torturous minute, Sansa thinks he’s gonna force her to stay there, at the same table, with  _ him _ , but Ned just sighs, and says. “Go ahead.”

On her way out the door, she passed by Jon’s chair, and he flinches. She hadn’t realized she had done the same until she’s safe in her room. She sits on the bed, wiping at her cheeks numbly, which were already wet with tears. 

Sansa nearly lets her head fall onto her pillow, before she realizes that it’s the same one Jon had used to comfort her what felt like a million years ago.

She throws it across the room with a sob.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BE A SEXY BEAST AND DROP A COMMENT BELOW!!!! OR TELL ME WHAT U THINK ON TWITTER/TUMBLR @jeynesgreyjoy


	13. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for 1K! Enjoy!

**Jon**

****

Jon’s never been great at admitting when he’s wrong. 

Because he’s  _ usually  _ right. When it came to most things, anyway. Like history trivia. Directions. Sports predictions. Algebra. Random questions on Jeopardy. He’s by no means a fucking genius, but he knows his shit most of the time, contrary to what Ygritte used to say.

Yet when it comes to Sansa—

Jon does nearly everything wrong.

And he knows that. He just didn’t know it at the time, when he was spewing all types of bullshit. But it felt right. Every time he thought about biting his tongue, he just thought about Loras, handing his jersey to Sansa like the cliche douchebag he was, and Loras, shaking Ned’s hand like he was already apart of the family, and Loras, holding Sansa’s hand while walking down the hallways of Queenscrown, and Loras,  _ kissing  _ her, those lips that  _ Jon  _ had kissed—

He  _ had  _ to say something.  _ Had  _ to.

And what did it get him? Sansa, glaring at him with tears in her eyes, throwing words at him that cut deeper than any blade. Words that make his throat and chest so tight that he can’t even bring himself to look at her when He leaves, can’t even bring himself to get up and go after her.

_ You  _ wanna talk to me about abandoning family.  _ Really _ ?

“You okay?”

Jon shakes his head to pull himself firmly out of his thoughts. He and Arya are standing in the foyer, seeing Gendry off. Or at least, trying to. Ned is talking to him by the door, and his face looks awfully chalky, and pale. Bran and Rickon are gone, have probably gone back to playing video games. Arya is tugging at his elbow, probably to comfort him and keep herself from hopping into Ned and Gendry’s conversation.

The least Jon could do was give that comfort. He forces a half smile, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Yeah. You?”

“Fine.” Arya says, even if she sounds a little tired, but she also sounds relieved. But when she looks up at him, her face is soft, and he knows that change of subject didn’t fool her. “She didn’t mean it, you know.”

He  _ knows  _ that. 

He does.

Jon saw it in the way she teared up immediately after saying it. She didn’t mean it, not then, but maybe at one point she did. Maybe during all of the time that he was gone, they had all thought that, and that hurts him more than anything. He had never wanted to leave anyone twisting in the wind, he just—

He wanted the pain to  _ stop _ .

“You seem like an… interesting young man, Gendry.” Ned announces, shaking his hand firmly. He still doesn’t look quite convinced of him, but Jon knows he’s warming up to him. Arya must too, because she relaxes. “I hope to see you again soon.”

“You too, sir.” Gendry says, smiling weakly. Jon sees the sag of relief in his shoulders.

“I’ll walk him out.” Arya says, before her father can get any ideas. But she turns to Jon, as if to ask for permission.

_ (She doesn’t want to leave me alone right now.) _

“Go ahead.” He says, shrugging and forcing another smile. “Say goodbye to your  _ boyfriend. _ ”

Arya crinkles her nose and punches him in the stomach, and that brings a laugh out of him, a real one. She points at him accusingly, although she’s already backing towards the door. “Wait for me?”

Jon can only nod, before she grabs Gendry’s hand, and tugs him out of the door, leaving him with Ned in the foyer. He clearly hasn’t forgot about the dinner argument, from the way he glares at him right now. Jon nearly folds under his stony stare.

“In front of company? Really?” 

He cringes. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not  _ me _ you should be apologizing to.” Ned says. He points up at the stairs. “You seemed intent on antagonizing Sansa from the moment she got home–”

“It wasn’t like that—” Jon begins to argue.

“After all she did for you so you could stay?  _ Really _ ?” He cuts him off, pointing at him.

And Jon feels like shit.

Because he remembers her face. The tremble of her lips and the glassy shine to her eyes. If he had just been a little bit nicer to Loras, if he had just kept his mouth shut when she asked about the show downtown—

But he just  _ couldn’t. _

Not when he hadn’t stopped thinking about her for a moment since their last phone call, worried, and not when he had sat in Ned’s study, sorting through files, and listening out for a sign of a car engine, a sign that she was home, and he’d get to see her—

“Make things right before you leave.” Ned says sharply. “You two aren’t kids anymore. Adults solve their own problems.”

And then he walks back into his study, slamming the door. Jon is left alone, heart heavy, but he knows what he has to do.

***

Every step he takes up the stairs makes his chest feel a little heavier.

So he does it faster, jogs up until he’s on top of the stairs with his heart in his throat. It’s eight steps to Sansa’s room (yes, he fucking counts) and he makes each of them last at least a minute because he can’t bring himself to just make it all go by quickly like he had done with the staircase. 

Her door is just right in front of him.

Jon extends his hand, but falls short of touching the doorknob. Words are echoing in his head, her words, and they make him falter. They make him upset all over again, and he takes a step back, because he’s not sure he can look at her right this moment.

_ (You wanna talk to me about abandoning family? Really?) _

Jon steps back, letting out a shaky breath. He’s about to turn away, just go back downstairs and leave, but the door opens before he gets the chance. He’s unable to move.

But it’s not Sansa, it’s Bran.

He’s closing the door gently behind him, and his eyes narrow at the sight of Jon. He shakes his head. “Not a good idea.”

“Bran—” Jon begins, sighing.

“Not right now.” Bran says firmly, and then glances furtively at the Sansa’s door. “Not tonight.”

It’s fair. 

It’s completely fair.

Jon nods, swallowing. “Right. I’ll just go, then.”

But Bran doesn’t let him. After glancing around the hallway paranoidly, he drags Jon into his room, shutting the door and locking it. Jon is about to ask him what his problem is, when Bran beats him to the chase. He shoves him a little, and Jon stumbles.

“You’re an  _ asshole _ .”

Jon winces. “I know.”

“No!” Bran says shrilly, and then bleats out a hysterical laugh. “I don’t  _ think _ you do.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “How long?”

“What?” He furrows his eyebrows.

“Did it just start?” Bran interrogates him, blue eyes wide. His words are rushed, and a little frantic. They make Jon very scared for some reason. He then continues, more to himself, “Or maybe it never started, maybe it just continued because it’s always been there, and it’s never not been there and Gods, that would make so much sense—”

“What are you talking about?” Jon finally cuts in, more lost than ever in his rambling.

“Sansa...” Bran says, glaring at him accusingly. “You… you  _ like _ her.”

Jon freezes.

“Of course I like her.” He says finally, trying to shrug as casually as possible. “She’s—”

“Nope. Nuh uh.” Bran says, shaking his head vigorously and pointing at him. “You don’t get to do that, you don’t get to fucking deflect—”

“I’m not deflecting!” Jon says.

There was  _ no  _ way that he liked her like  _ that.  _ He was just… confused. The kiss had screwed everything up, and so had the whole paparazzi thing but it hadn’t screwed everything up  _ that  _ bad. He didn’t… he couldn’t—

“ _ Bullshit _ , oh my gods!” Bran laughs, and this time it sounds a bit more high strung and disbelieving. “You have a crush on Sansa.”

“That’s—that’s ridiculous.” Jon tries to laugh to play it off, but now he’s panicking, his sanity is in a freefall. “I’m not, I would never—”

“Oh, it’s definitely ridiculous.” Bran says between wheezes, clutching his stomach. There are tears in his eyes now. “I’m sorry, this has to be a joke. Some type of sick, twisted joke. I’m being punked. Where are the cameras?”

“This isn’t funny.” Jon says, neck flushing. “Nothing about this is funny.”

“Oh, I agree.” Bran says, sobering up little by little. “But if I don’t laugh, I’ll probably punch you in the face.” 

“She’s your sister. I’d never—”

“Deny, deny, deny. That’s the course of action I’d take. What’s that saying? Fake it till you make it?”

“I’m not faking anything!” Jon nearly shouts, and he’s not sure if he’s talking to Bran or himself. 

Bran is glaring at him again. “Yeah, that’s the fucking  _ problem _ , genius.” He lowers his voice a little. “You looked like you were gonna go all hulk on that Loras guy when he was here earlier!”

“You didn’t want to?” Jon asks in incredulity. “He’s so full of himself. He’s pretentious, a prick—”

“And interested in Sansa.” He’s smirking now.

“I just don’t want her to get hurt!” Jon argues, throwing up his hands in the air. “I’m looking out for her! Someone has to while Robb isn’t here.”

“Uh huh.” Bran says, like he doesn’t believe at all. Then, he sits in his desk chair and leans back. He picks up a Rubik’s cube and starts messing with it. “Shouldn’t that extend to Arya too?”

“What?” Jon says blankly.

“I mean, if anything, you should be more protective of her.” Bran tilts his head, shrugging. “She’s the youngest girl. Gendry’s a little older. Rides a Harley. Typical bad boy… insert all the cliches.”

“I trust Arya’s judgement.” Jon says. “And Gendry’s harmless.”

He really was, and a cool guy as well. Sure he had a resting bitch face, and he didn’t have the most conventional way of traveling, but he was nice, and made Arya smile in a way she hadn’t in awhile. They made each other happy, and that was what mattered. 

“To you he is.” Bran scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Arya isn’t the one you have a crush on.”

And he’s  _ right. _

He didn’t  _ kiss  _ Arya.

“Shit,” Jon breathes, rubbing at his face.

_ “Shit.” _ Bran agrees, tone dripping with condescension.

***

“You’re late.” Ned tells him,, when he gets into the office the next morning, out of breath with wet hair with Bronn and Jory following him. 

“Sorry.” Jon apologizes, adjusting his tie. “Didn’t get much sleep.”

And that was true.

But it’s not like he could specify. He spent most of the night tossing and turning over the fact that he had feelings for Sansa, and not just, “Yes I occasionally have wet dreams about her” feelings, but “I want to take her out on a date and hold her hand and murder Loras” type of feelings.

This is—

This is the  _ worst.  _

“Don’t let it happen again.” Ned says warningly, walking off to his office. Letting out a sigh, Jon finally collapses at his desk, taking off his messenger bag, and trying to push all thoughts about Sansa away. Bronn and Jory take up their positions at the entrances. 

“You and your beauty sleep.”

Jon turns to find Val, an intern of Jon Umber Senior, looking at him. She’s always looking at him with those weird looks. Like she knows something about him that he doesn’t. It makes him uncomfortable. 

“Something like that.” Jon shrugs, trying his best to ignore her. 

He spends most of the morning buried in busywork with a box of files Ned handed him, and then he sits in on a meeting with all of the executives and takes notes. That takes an hour, and they spend it talking about a big client that was supposed to be coming in soon. Only when it’s over is Jon released for lunch, and by consequence, his mind is released to wander. To wonder. 

About Sansa. 

He sneaks outside, allowing the fresh air to ruffle his hair, and he thinks about calling her. Jon doesn’t know if she would answer, doesn’t blame her if she wouldn’t, but he really wants to hear her voice. He couldn’t find it in himself to be angry anymore, not when he missed her like this.

_ (This is soooooo humiliating.) _

_ (Gods.) _

Jon denies himself the pleasure in calling her, and denies her the pleasure of declining it. He takes a cigarette out instead and lights it up. Exhaling smoke, he thinks of ways to cure this predicament he’s in. He could go back to King’s Landing, hope that the crush just fades away. He could find an actual girl to date, to get his family off of his back, and to distract him. He was forbidding himself from going near red heads. Maybe she’d be a brunette. Maybe he’d even fall in love with her. That didn’t sound so bad—

His phone rings.

Jon wastes no time in answering it, pressing the phone to his ear without even looking at the caller ID. He hurriedly exhales the smoke from his mouth and chokes a little. “Hello?”

“Don’t tell me you’re  _ sick. _ ”

It’s not Sansa, but Rhaenys who is on the other end of the line. He sighs heavily. “I’m not sick. What do you need?”

“Ouch.” Rhaenys whines playfully. “Somebody’s  _ chipper _ this afternoon.”

“Should I be?” Jon shoots back. “You haven’t been answering my calls.”

Jon hadn’t talk to Rhaenys since the day of paparazzi aftermath, when she had just hung up without any explanation. He tried to call her several times, and never got any answer. It only worried him even more. 

“I texted!” Rhaenys says defensively. “Things have been… hectic lately. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Jon says quickly. He remembers her crying on the phone to him, so lost and upset, and he softens just a little. He feels like shit for being so hostile to his sister when she was doing the best she could. “Egg hasn’t been answering the phone either.”

“Egg never answers the phone.” Rain says dismissively, or at least like she’s trying to sound dismissive. It’s not quite working. Her voice is too high. 

“He hasn’t even texted.”

“He’s fine.” She insists, and then she lowers her voice a little. “He’s with mama.”

Jon feels his chest bloom with relief. “You guys found her? She’s back in King’s Landing?”

“No.” Rhaenys says, and he’s never heard her sound so flat before. “They’re in Dorne.”

“Oh.” Jon says, frowning. He was starting to think that maybe this whole thing was a misunderstanding after all. Maybe Elia was just homesick and up for an impromptu trip back to the water gardens, maybe she hadn’t left their father, not truly. “Before we left, she talked to me about wanting to go home for a bit—”

“She’s not home.” She cuts him off abruptly. “She’s in Starfall.”

Starfall, a city in Dorne. Elia hadn’t mentioned it when they were talking. Jon wonders what was in Starfall for Elia. Before he can ask, Rhaenys is speaking again. 

“I didn’t call you for that, anyway, everything is fine—” suddenly he hears someone in the background, presumably speaking to her. That’s when she snaps, “Get that  _ away _ from me. I said  _ crimson _ , not maroon. What part of fire and blood don’t you understand?”

Her tone is whip like and it makes Jon cringe a little, how much she sounds like their father. He feels embarrassed for the person on the receiving end of that barb. 

“Sorry about that.” Rhaenys says airily, turning back into the sweet, bubbly sister he had come to know and love. “As I was saying, your coronation is in December and with both father and mother out of commission, it’s falling on me to plan it all.”

“Shit.” Jon curses, he was only adding onto her dress. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be!” The worst part of all is that she says it like she means it. “It’s not your fault.”

“It’s  _ my _ coronation.”

“And it’s gonna be  _ splendid! _ Aren’t you excited?”

_ Not really.  _ But he wouldn’t dare tell his sister that, not when she was working so hard on it. So he just says, “I guess.”

Rhaenys doesn’t buy his feigned enthusiasm. She chastises him gently, “You should be. Have you decided who you’re gonna invite? I need to take their names down.”

“Oh.” Jon hadn’t even thought about inviting anyone. “Um—”

“You’re godfather, I’m assuming.” She says, and he swears he can hear the scribbling of pen on paper. “Along with the rest of the Starks.”

He’s not even sure they would want to  _ come.  _ He’s not sure he wants them to. “Rain—”

“Don’t tell me!” Rhaenys declares confidently. “I remember their names. There’s… Robert, I think it is?”

“Robb.” Jon corrects, resigned; and taking a drag of his cigarette.

“Same difference! And then there’s Arya, Brandon, Rickon and… your Sansa.”

She sings the last part and despite the pain in his chest at the reminder of her, he can’t help but laugh at his sister’s enthusiasm. “Yeah.”

“Oh Jon, I’m so excited to meet her! She sounds  _ amazing _ .”

And then it hits him. Rhaenys and Sansa meeting. His entire family meeting Sansa. While the rest of the world thought he was dating someone random, they still thought that he was dating  _ Sansa,  _ and just wanted to keep it a secret. Somehow, some way, Jon would need to figure out a way to fix this, but without dragging Sansa into it. He could come clean to his family, which would just result in more horrible matchmaking, the reason he had lied in the  _ first  _ place. Or he could tell them that him and Sansa broke up, and he got a new girlfriend. Or, he could even ask Sansa to be his girlfriend—

_ (What the—) _

_ (What the fuck is wrong with me?) _

Bran had definitely gotten into his head. 

“What’s wrong?” Rhaenys asks after he doesn’t answer, taking his silence to mean that something was wrong.

And she’s  _ not  _ wrong.

He just can’t  _ tell  _ her that.

“What?” Jon says, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. 

“Don’t “what” me. Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong!”

“Jon, I’m your sister.” Rhaenys sounds worried now, and the lilt of her voice already makes Jon want to just tell her.. “You can tell me anything. You know that.”

And he almost does.

_ Almost. _

But he confesses something else instead.

“We got into a fight, and, it was bad. I said things I didn’t mean, and she said things—”

His chest tightens just thinking about it.

“—that she  _ also _ didn’t mean.” Rhaenys finishes for him, a little sterner than usual. “People say anything when they’re angry.”

“I know.” Jon says finally, dropping his cigarette and stepping into it. 

“Look,” Rhaenys sighs, and her voice is so gentle and soft that he wishes she were with him right now. “I know I don’t know the girl, and I don’t know a lot about your relationship, or how things were between you growing up but— I  _ saw _ those photos.”

The photos.

When they had gone to the mall together that day. When she had held his hand, and leaned on his shoulder. He had seen them too. It was hell trying to explain it all to Robb.

“You don’t look at someone you don’t love like that.” Rhaenys says at last. “Just fix it, okay? I’m 99% sure you two are meant to be.”

_ (Meant to be.) _

If only it wasn’t the exact opposite. 

If only Robb wouldn’t try to beat the shit out of him, if only Arya would never speak to him again. Bran seemed fine with it, but only because he didn’t know about everything else. About the kiss. He still didn’t  _ know  _ how Ned would react. It would just mess everything up. Not to mention he didn’t even know how Sansa felt—

Sansa, who was practically with Loras. 

Everything is a mess.

“Sure.” Jon swallows. “ I gotta go.”

“Jon—”

“I’ll call you later. Love you.”

***

Jon goes back inside, and there’s still 45 minutes of his lunch left. Bronn and Jory rush up to him, as they were clearly looking for where he snuck off to. They glare at him disapprovingly, but Jon can’t find it in himself to care at the moment. He’s in such a bad mood.

“There you are.” Ned says, poking his head out of the boardroom. He beckons him with a hand. “I want you to come meet someone.”

That’s when Jon remembers: the client.

He hurriedly adjusts his tie and tries not to look as sour as he usually does. A moody intern wouldn’t reflect back well on Ned. So he tries his best to keep a neutral expression, as he walks into the boardroom,

He tries— and fails.

Because he  _ knows  _ the person sitting there.

“Jon,” Ned says, “I believe you were well acquainted with Myranda in KL,”

Well acquainted seemed like the right word for it.

She had fitted him for new suits more times that he can remember, and he had been dragged out to lunch with her, Egg, and Rain on more than one occasion. She was always nice to him, if not a little teasing, and honestly, Jon would have been relieved to find out that it was her, and not some client he had never met, but—

She’s a Lannister. 

Married to Jaime Lannister. Stepmother of Joffrey. Stepmother to that little creep that hurt Sansa. Jon can’t even manage a fake smile when she smiles at him first, his blood is boiling.

There was no way she didn’t know about it.

And now she’s sitting here, in Ned’s office, who had no choice but to host her because he didn’t want to lose a client.

“Yes.” Jon says flatly. “ Hi.”

“It’s good to see you again.” Myranda says good naturedly, flashing a grin at him that once used to make him feel welcome but now it just makes him annoyed. “I’m in the area on business, and thought I’d stop by. Your uncle tells me you’re free for lunch. My treat.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh?”

Myranda looks genuinely surprised eyebrows raised and forehead wrinkling. Jon doesn’t think anyone’s told her no before, and it only gives him even more satisfaction.

“I’m extremely busy with the Tallhart case.” He lies.

Ned laughs, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His smile is forced. “I’m sure you could push that back until after lunch.”

He’s not asking, he’s  _ telling.  _ But still, Jon doesn’t waver. “I don’t think I can.”

There’s silence.

Myranda just stares at him, tapping perfectly manicured fingers against her chin. She knows that he’s intentionally avoiding her, he can see it in her eyes. Her shoulders are stiff, but she feigns a pout. “Oh, Jon. Now you’re just hurting my feelings.

Jon is about to tell him just how much he doesn’t care that he’s hurting her feelings, in the most polite and icily respectful way of course, when Ned’s glare hits him full force and he pushes open the door. 

“Jon. My office, please.”

(Okay.)

(He kind of should have saw this coming.) 

Still, Jon doesn’t allow himself to wilt as he follows Ned inside the office, or after he slams the door shut with a bang.

“I don’t know  _ what _ has gotten into you–”

“She’s a  _ Lannister _ .” Jon hisses, temper flaring. It seemed like  _ he  _ was the only one who remembered that. “Her family, what they did to Sansa—”

“What  _ Joffrey _ did.” Ned corrects sharply. “Don’t go blaming Myranda for the actions of that boy when she didn’t know—”

“She’s his  _ stepmother _ !” Jon interjects. “How did she not know, how did any of them not know?”

That was what this family  _ did.  _ Covered up things for one another. All so Tywin wouldn’t have to suffer the backlash. They didn’t care  _ who  _ they’d hurt in the process, and that included Sansa. It made his blood boil.

“In case you didn’t  _ notice _ , they aren’t the closest.” Ned snaps, stepping close to him so fast Jon nearly backs up. “Wasn’t it Myranda and Jaime who sided with you against Joffrey in the mess that got us here in the first place?”

He had a point.

Back in the capital, there didn’t seem to be any love lost between them. If he remembered correctly, Jaime did call his son something like a little shit, and Myranda had fervently agreed. Cersei had said something about Myranda turning a father against his son. Is that what she had done? 

“That wasn’t the first time, either.” Ned murmurs. For a second, he looks so old and he nearly collapses into his desk chair. He rubs his eyes.

Jon finds himself confused. “What does that mean?”

“They did it for Sansa too.”

_ “What?” _

“Jaime is the one that called me and told me that Sansa was in the hospital. Cersei and Tywin had the school wrapped around their finger and they didn’t even— they didn’t even  _ tell _ me she was hurt. Sansa was too scared to call me.” Ned looks furious just reliving it, cracking his knuckles. But he also looks lost, and shattered all over again. “He’s the reason why she’s home.”

Jon doesn’t really know what to say to that.

Yes, he knew Jaime was a bit of a rebel from all the things the tabloids and the news said throughout the past decade, but he didn’t know he’d go  _ that  _ far. To go behind his father’s back. To throw his own son under the bus. 

Ned interrupts his thoughts again. “Myranda and Jaime offered up their lawyers the first time. They wanted us to take Joffrey to court.”

Jon feels like a broken record. “ _ What?” _

_ That  _ wasn’t just bold, that was practically suicide. Even if they won, Tywin would have cut Jaime off from everything, maybe their children too. 

“Sansa settled at the last minute.” Ned sighs. “I have no idea why, but. She said she just wanted it all to be over.”

Jon remembers that night, out by the pool, when Sansa mentioned Joffrey spreading rumors about Sansa as soon as he learned that she wouldn’t settle, so he would just leave her alone. He feels his blood boil. He already knows the answer to the next question he poses.

“She doesn’t know?”

“No one does. Except you. I’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourself.”

Jon feels a flush of shame start to crawl up his neck. The way he had acted towards Myranda in front of Ned, when she did more to help Sansa than Jon did himself, made him feel guilty. “I’m sorry.”

Ned raises his eyebrows pointedly. “It’s not me you should be apologizing to.”

Jon sighs, nods. His cheeks are burning, but he prepared to go outside and eat his words, hand turning the door knob. 

“Before you do, there’s something I’ve been meaning to give you.”

Jon turns back, his curiosity piqued. “What is it?”

Ned hesitates. 

His mouth is set, eyes a little weary, but finally he sighs, and opens up his desk drawer. He pulls out a key, but turns it in his hands, instead of moving to give it to Jon.

“This is the key to the storage locker. With all your mother’s things.”

Jon freezes. 

He feels like a hole has been torn open in his chest, and it’s gaping painfully. He forgets to breathe for a second, so his breath is ragged when he finally exhales. Nevertheless, he schools his expression into something that didn’t reflect what was going on inside of his mind. 

But he can’t say anything. 

He doesn’t have to. Ned goes on. 

“I know you told me to just give it all away,” Ned says apologetically, “but I’d figure you’d want to keep some things.”

Yes, Jon had said that.

And he said it for a reason.

He didn’t want anything that reminded him of his mom. It hurt too much. It hurt to see the blanket that she had always scooped him up in when he was little to sit by the window, and read him a story. It hurt to see her handwriting scribbled in her her journals, of all the things she wanted to do, all the places she wanted to go, all of the love she had ever felt. It hurt to see all of the pictures of her, of  _ them,  _ happy, and all together. Happy, and one big family. 

Jon didn’t think he could take the pain.

Ned lifts his hand up, so that he can drop the key in it. He closes his fingers so that Jon has no choice but to hold the keys. Jon cannot look at his eyes, they know too much. They’re too earnest, too sad, too empathetic. 

“It’s two hours away, outside of Winterfell. Brandon has been keeping watch over it all this time.”

“Oh.” Is all Jon can say. He didn’t think it was possible to be so numb. 

“The longer you put this off, the more it’s gonna hurt.”

Jon wants to lash out at him, ask him what he knows about hurt, but he then remembers that he lost her too. And his wife before that. He was an expert at losing people by now, and he should know about it more than anyone. 

But he still didn’t wanna hear it. 

“Right.” Jon shuts his eyes briefly, looking for some kind of reprieve. “Thanks. I’ll see you later.”

“Jon—” Ned begins, but he’s already shutting the door and walking away.

***

Myranda is still in the boardroom, and had unsurprisingly found some way to entertain herself. She always did, even in the most awkward of situations. This time, she had found her entertainment in Bronn, who seemed to be talking to her animatedly, while she laughed so loudly he could hear it before he opened the door. It takes him clearing his throat for her to turn around. 

“There he is.” Myranda says, finally noticing him. Bronn takes the time to bow. She does not, but it’s not like he really minds. “Nice of you to join me, again. Bronn was keeping me company.”

“Oh.” Jon says awkwardly, and swallowing his shame, he gestures to his coat. “Well, I’m free, actually. We can go to lunch together— if you still want to, I mean.”

Like a light switch flickering, Myranda’s smile is back. “Splendid. Ready?”

Jon is barely able to nod before she’s leading the way. She walks much too quickly and much too steadily for someone in heels. She’s impatiently jamming at the elevator button by the time he catches up with her, slinging on his coat.

The elevator ride is awkward, to Jon at least. He’s trying to think of a way to apologize for his behavior, while Bronn and Myranda are chatting up a storm. He hadn’t realized they knew each other, until he remembered that Bronn came recommended by the Prime Minister himself.

“You never told me how royal employment was going for you.” Myranda inquires, as the elevator stops. Her bodyguard leads the way, while the other tails behind. Without even having a conversation, they had formed a protective square around Jon and Myranda.

Bronn shrugs, with a half smile. “Doesn’t pay as much as you guys do.”

“Nobody pays you as much as we do. They know better.” Myranda snorts. “You’re a crook. My husband and brother are just fond of you.”

Bronn doesn’t even bother to deny it, just laughs. 

“I don’t mean to interrupt, ma’am,” Jory interjects, quietly but loud enough so they could hear him. “But I’ll need to know the address of the restaurant you will be attending, so we can meet you there. 

“About that…” Myranda trails off, tapping her fingers against her chin. Her brown eyes land on Jon for a moment, considering for a few seconds, and then she glances back at Jory. “I was hoping Jaehaerys could ride with me. If that’s alright.”

_ (With you?) _

Jon can’t help the way his brow furrows, but he’s able to smooth it over before anyone can see it. The idea of being in a car with Myranda made him uncomfortable after how he treated her, and because he still hadn’t really found a way to apologize. 

“We have strict orders to stay with his Grace at all times.” Jory says, but then he’s blushes, because Myranda is smiling at him. 

Jon is very familiar with this type of smile, as it’s one Sansa has given him on more occasions than he can count. The “I’m gonna get what I want” smile, also known as the “You’re gonna give me what I want,  _ please, _ ” smile.

“It’s not like he’ll be  _ alone _ .” She says. “Or unprotected. I have two more guards waiting with the car outside. Though, I doubt will need them for a ten minute drive.”

Jory twists his mouth, like he still doesn’t know, but Bronn shrugs. “I don’t see an issue with it, as long as we’re tailing them the whole time.”

“Of course.” Myranda nods. “Is that alright with you, Jon?” 

He hesitates for the the faintest second, but he forces a smile. He hopes it’s not as half hearted as it feels. “Sure. Cool with me.” 

“Then it’s settled.” Myranda’s smile is less sultry and more genuine now. “Come on, then. We’re already a bit late for our reservation.” 

Jon sighs, fumbling for his glasses in his coat pocket to prepare for the flash, but Myranda doesn’t even do that. He’s barely got them on the bridge of his nose when she’s nodding at her bodyguard to open the door.

There’s a lot more than usual. After the first few weeks, the crowd of camera men that always awaited him outside of work and his school began to wane a little. But now there seemed to be twice as much, probably thanks to Myranda. She takes it all in stride, though, better than him. She walks through, and there’s members of the crowd actually  _ pushing  _ others back to make way for them. It makes it much easier to get to the car, and he’s still exhaling in disbelief when Jory shuts the door behind him.

“It’s good to know I’m loved this far up north.” Myranda remarks. She looks a little surprised at the event herself, laughing a little. “Not everywhere takes too kindly to Lannisters.”

“They don’t really take kindly to Targaryens, either.” Jon mutters. Not that he felt like one, but he was being constantly reminded that he  _ was  _ one, by all of the northern blogs that accused him of a different scandal every week.

“I guess not.” Myranda says. Her smile fades into a look he can’t quite place. He just knows it feels scrutinizing. Contemplative. “You’re considerably less surly than you were earlier.”

Jon feels his face heat up. He had been such a dick earlier. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—"

“It’s fine.” Myranda cuts him off swiftly, even a little sternly. “You didn’t know. But I’m guessing you do now?”

Ned had said not to talk about it, but it’s not like Myranda hadn’t been in the situation. There was no harm in asking. And as much as he doesn’t want to know, he  _ really  _ does too. “Ned told me a little.”

Myranda nods, pursing her lips in thought. It’s the most serious he’s ever seen her, no trace of that humor from earlier on her face. “I had never met his daughter while she was dating Joffrey. I barely saw Joffrey at all that year. Jaime and him aren’t very close and he’s not very fond of me—"

She sighs, twisting her ring on her finger. Jon recognizes that sigh as well.. The anger. The feeling of helplessness. He had felt the same when Sansa had finally told him. He knows immediately that what Ned had told him was true.

_ (There’s no way she knew about this.) _

“I know that’s no excuse for what happened,” Myranda says, finally looking back up at him. For once, her brown eyes are transparent. Earnest.  _ Pleading,  _ even. “But as soon as we found out we did as much as we could. I never would have–"

“I know.” Jon tells her, because he does. He feels guilty again, for even thinking that Myranda could take place in something like that. The family she married into might have been horrible, but she wasn’t. Neither was her husband, to an extent. “I get it.”

Myranda sighs in relief, and Jon feels a weight lift from his chest. Her smile is back, and so is that mischievous glint in her eyes. “You know, I had never seen her face before until that article came out. She truly is gorgeous. And from what I’ve heard from Ned, she’s sweet too.”

“Yeah.” His chest twinges at the thought of Sansa. “She is.”

“You’ve done well for yourself.”

Jon feels like his eyes are about to pop out of his sockets. 

_ (Shit.) _

“Your sister is my best friend!” Myranda exclaims. “Did you really think she wouldn’t tell me?”

_ (That was a good point.) _

Still, Jon protests, “I told her not to tell anyone!”

“I never count!”

This lie was getting more and more out of control everyday. He could have braces himself for this earlier, if Rhaenys had warned him in the first place. “She didn’t tell me you were coming north.”

“Uh...” Myranda says slowly, biting her lip. “She doesn’t know. Exactly.” 

_ (What the fuck does that mean?) _

Jon didn’t have time to ponder it, he had more important things to worry about. “Did you— did you tell Ned?”

At first, Myranda frowns bemusedly, but then she’s smirking widely. “He doesn’t know?”

He stays silent, trying to fish for some response.

“Naughty, naughty.” She sings, wagging her finger. “No wonder Rain said you wanted to keep it a secret.” 

He barely has time to let the words sink in, to realize that thankfully, she hadn’t told Ned at all, when the car comes to a stop. In the rear view, so does Jory and Bronn’s. The driver turns around to tell them, “We've arrived, Ma’am. Your Grace.” 

It’s a fancy restaurant, but Jon should have known that when Myranda mentioned a reservation. Faceless, it’s called. But it doesn’t look open. The blinds are shut, and because of that, Jon can’t really tell if there’s a light inside. Still, Myranda’s guard opens the door easily. There is a light on inside, it’s just empty, save for three of the serving staff. They all bow embarrassingly low at the sight of him, gushing over their excitement to host the two of them.

“It’s truly an honor,” The man who introduced himself as a restaurant owner says. Jaqen, he insisted they call him. 

“I’m honored you could host us on such short notice.” Myranda replies genially. 

After showing Bronn and Jory the exit they could guard to make sure none of the paparazzi or any other unwanted guests could sneak in, Jaqen leads them to a table in the center of the room. He feels like he’s back at the Capital. There’s several forks and different kinds of spoons, and he scrambles his brain, trying to remember what Rhaenys taught him so that he wouldn’t look stupid in front of her.

“What do you recommend?” Myranda asks him, opening up her menu. 

“I don’t know.” Jon mumbles. “I’ve never been here before.”

When he opened up the menu, he could see why. Everything here was super expensive, almost the price of his textbooks at school. He knew Myranda was paying, but he didn’t want to burn a hole in her pocket. He picks a salad. 

A server sweeps over again. She’s older, but her face is kind, She’s holding a bottle and introducing it with flourish. “Our finest wine. Red from the Arbor.”

“Oooh.” Myranda says, impressed as he fills up both of their glasses.

Only when he’s out of sight does Jon lean in closer, pointing to his glass and whispering.  “I’m not—”

She winks at him. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Jon had gotten used to following the rules now that he was back north. Sure, he could still get away with anything, but it didn’t feel right to him. That would just be proving his father’s point:  _ There’s no point in school when you’re a prince of Westeros. _

“Ma’am.” One Of Myranda’s guard speaks up, stepping forward. He looks pointedly at her wine, and it causes her to frown.

“Oh.  _ Really _ ?”

He nods affirmatively. “I’m afraid so.”

Jon doesn’t really understand why, but Myranda lets out a long suffering sigh. She picks up her wine glass, and pours it into his with a pout. “Fine. Martyn, go tell them I want ginger ale.”

Her other guard nods, leaving at once. Jon is tempted to ask her why she can’t drink, but Myranda seems to read his mind. 

“My stomach virus.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Apparently I still have a very sensitive constitution.”

Jon remembered Rhaenys telling him something about that, but that had been over a month ago. He wondered what kind of nasty virus left effects that lasted that long. 

“Anyway.” Myranda leans forward and props her chin up on folded hands. “Tell me why I should choose Stark and Associates to represent Lady Randa designs.”

Jon blinks. He honestly wasn’t expecting that question. He thought Myranda had just asked him out because she didn’t know anyone else in the north, not to talk about actual business. No wonder Ned was so insistent on him going. He tries to remember everything he’s heard in all the meetings he’s attended, all the cases he’s worked, all of the notes he’s scribbled down on yellow lines paper. Lamely, he says. “Well, we’re the best in the north.”

“I already know that.” Myranda scoffs. “But are you the best for  _ me _ ?”

“Yes.” He replies, attempting to inject more confidence in his voice. He lifts his chin. “If you choose us, you won’t regret it.”

“Tell me why.”

So Jon does, as eloquently as he can. He tells her of the statistics, how many clients they’ve acquired, and how well taken care of they are. How no client is left behind. How notorious the lawyers in their firm are for their professionalism and success rate. Rickard Karstark, Robett Glover, and Cley Cerwyn for fantastic at their jobs, they just weren’t as good as Ned. No one made clients feel safe quite like Ned. Her face is unreadable, but she asks all the right questions.  _ Will I be able to trust you to take care of my company once we expand north? How safe will my information be? How many people will have access to it? _ All while sipping from her ginger ale. And he answers them all, to the best of his ability.

“Mrs. Royce–Lannister, you have a phone call.” Her guard interrupts suddenly, abruptly. It was the one he still didn’t know the name of. He looked a bit like Jaime, honestly.

Myranda turns her head. “Who is it?”

“Mr. Lannister.”

Her lips press into a thin line, and she snorts. “Decline it.”

Jon can’t help the way his eyes widen a little, but Myranda just motions for him to continue, so he does. Thankfully without stumbling over his words.

But he’s interrupted again, but it’s Martyn this time, who’s attempting to hand her her phone. “He’s calling again, ma’am.”

Myranda doesn’t take it. “So decline it again.” 

_ (What the fuck?) _

Jon had met Jaime before, briefly had been in his presence before, and he was intimidating as fuck. Scary as fuck, really. He knew he wasn’t the only one that felt that way, almost as many people quivered in his presence as they did in his father’s. He’s about to suggest that she answer when she speaks again.

“You drive a hard bargain, Jon. You’ve got me as a client.”

“Really?” Jon gapes. Myranda starts to laugh, and he flushes. “I mean— that’s great. You won’t regret it—”

“Ma’am,” Martyn urges her, trying to hand her the phone again. “I think it might be serious.”

“Block him.” She says simply. 

“But ma’am—”

“Did I stutter?”

Martyn opens his mouth, but he closes it, and does as he’s ordered.

_ (Something is going on.) _

“Anyway!” Myranda says, voice bouncing back to that sly and cheerful tone. “That’s not the only reason I came here, Jon. With everything going on back at the capital, Rhaenys lost your measurements—”

“Measurements?” Jon questions blankly.

“For your coronation suit, of course. And your vision.” Myranda rolls her eyes, as if he should have known that already. “She just wanted to wing it, but I decided to come to you and take care of some business at the same time. Isn’t that nice of me?”

“Yes.” Jon says. Strangely so. “But Rain doesn’t know you’re here?”

There it is, her biting her lip again. But then she smiles airily. “She’ll thank me for it later.”

There’s the sound of a door swinging, and the server is back, balancing two plates in her arms. She smiles at them. “Your Grace. Mrs. Royce Lannister. I know you said you weren’t quite sure of what you wanted to order, but we took the liberty of preparing your favorites.”

“Oh.” Jon says. Sure enough, it is steak sitting on the plate she places in front of him. He doesn’t remember telling anyone that. “Thanks.”

_ (Is this information googleable?)  _

_ (Do I have a Wikipedia biography?)  _

Myranda does not say the same. As a matter of fact, her mouth is turned down at the corners. She questions, “Favorite?”

“Yes.” The server, Crane her name tag reads, nods her affirmative. She slides a plate in front of her. “Shrimp portobello.”

Myranda shuts her eyes briefly, swallowing. She pushes the plate back the serve gently. “No thank you.”

“Pardon?” Crane asks, worriedly. “Were we mistaken, or—”

“Take it away.” Myranda snaps, covering her nose and pushing it further away. “The  _ smell _ . I can’t stand it. Get it away.” 

Crane quickly obeys, murmuring apologies and striding back to the kitchen. When she’s gone, Myranda exhales heavily, and braces her hands against the table, bowing her head.

“Are you okay?” Jon asks her, leaning forward. She didn’t look so good. Her nose is scrunches and her breaths are ragged. 

“Of course.” Myranda is noticeably composing herself, and the grin she wears is feigned and force. She picks up her glass of ginger ale, and sips, adjusting the straps of her dress. “Where were we?”

_ (Guess she really wasn’t lying about that stomach bug.) _

“My vision.” Jon offers up, wondering in the back of his mind if he should call Rhaenys. 

“Yes, your vision.” Myranda repeats, nodding. She holds her hand out. “Willam, my sketchbook out of my purse, please.” 

The other guard comes forward, handing it to her. In the spiral, there’s a pencil. She takes it out, and cracks it open. She looks all business now. “What do you see a yourself in when you picture your coronation?”

“I don’t know.” Jon scratches the back of his neck. “A suit?”

“Really?” Myranda quirks an eyebrow. “I think going naked would be quite the statement.”

He blushes, and that causes her to laugh. “I’m only teasing. If I remember correctly, you really like black.”

Nothing black could ever really go wrong. So he says, “Yes.”

“That’ll work! So here’s what I was thinking—"

“Ma’am.” Martyn comes forward. He looks uncertain, and sure enough, he’s holding her phone again. 

Myranda glares at him. “You didn’t block him?”

“No. I mean, yes!” He rushes on. “It’s—it’s actually Myrcella.”

Myranda lets out a laugh, but it sounds anything but amused. “Does he really think I’m that stupid?” She turns to Jon. “Do I look stupid to you?”

Jon stammers, not quite sure on how to answer that question. He doesn’t need to, because she snatches the vibrating phone from his hand, and answers it. “Hello?”

_ “What the FUCK?” _

Embarrassingly enough, Jon actually jumps a little in his seat, because he hadn’t realized Myranda had the phone on speaker. She doesn’t look the least bit fazed however, just sighs and rolls her eyes. “A good afternoon would be nice.”

“Oh you want to talk about common decency?” Jaime hisses through the phone, anger nowhere near abated. “You  _ left _ the country in the middle of the night and  _ stole my jet. _ ”

(A jet.)

(The way he made it sound, she had asked for a divorce.)

(Rich people problems, truly.)

“I didn’t steal it. It’s mine too.” Myranda counters breezily, inspecting her nails. “I think that was one of our vows. What’s mine is yours, blah blah blah.”

“This isn’t about the fucking  _ jet _ , Randa.” Jaime snaps. “I woke up and found you missing and would have called the police if I didn’t think to call Arianne first.”

Myranda sighs, tsking. She covers the phone, and tells Jon, “Your cousin and that big fat mouth of hers...”

“What’s going on? Is this about last night?” Jaime demands. He sounds exasperated, and annoyed, but even still, he sounds fond. “Are you seriously that mad?”

“If you still don’t understand  _ why _ , then I don’t feel like we should be having this conversation."

“You have  _ got _ to be fucking kidding me right now.”

Her voice is suddenly sharp and her jaw is clenched. “I’m sorry for the emotional distress I’ve caused you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m in the middle of an important meeting.” 

“A meeting?” He says disdainfully.

“Yes, with Prince Jaehaerys.” Myranda replies back just as coldly. She holds the phone out. “Say hi, Jon.”

Jon nearly shakes his head, as he wanted no part in whatever the duck Myranda and Jaime were going through right now, but something about her face tells him she’s not to be tested. He leans, and croaks awkwardly. “Hello.”

“You’re up  _ North _ ?” His voices rises even more, but it only causes Myranda to roll her eyes. 

“I have business that needs taking care of.”

“Fuck business. Come home.”

Myranda is silent for a moment, eyes falling shut. Jons never really seen her like this, so tired and vulnerable. He thinks he sees tears watering in her eyes. Jaime still persists. 

“ _ Please _ .”

Myranda blinks several times until the tears aren’t there anymore, and then she clears her throat. “Soon. I’ll talk to you later.”

She hangs up before he can respond.

Jon is about to ask her if she’s okay, but then her mask is back in place. The sultry, bubbly, casual one. She picks up her notebook again. “As I was saying, black is a given and all, but I was thinking a splash of red too. Y’know, fire and blood and all that.”

“Sure.” Jon says, at a loss for any other words to say. Asking her if she was okay would be useless. 

(She isn’t.)

(He knows how it feels to not be okay.)

She’s about to open her mouth to elaborate more, but her phone starts ringing, again. “For fuck’s sake.” She shouts, so loudly that the cooks on the kitchen could probably hear it. She stands up, taking the phone, and throwing it to the floor. 

“Uh—” Jon begins, eyes widening.

And then she’s  _ stomping  _ on it, the heel of her stiletto slamming through the glass repeatedly.  _ Crunch! Crunch _ ! Like she was grinding up a cigarette on the pavement. The screen probably could have been repaired if she didn’t start  _ jumping  _ on it like a fucking lunatic.

Jon just  _ stares.  _

At last, Myranda stops, kicking the remnants of her iPhone to the side. She’s breathing heavily, pressing a hand to her forehead, but then she sways to the left, stumbling. Jon stands up to catch her just in time.

“Woah.” He murmurs, steadying her on her feet. But her legs are weak, like jelly. Martyn and Willam come forward immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“Just… dizzy.” Myranda mumbles, gripping his arm.

But it’s more than that. Her pupils are dilated, she’s breathing in a fractured rhythm, and when Jon presses a hand to her cheek, she’s hot to the touch. “Myranda, you’re burning up.”

“I’m fine.” She insists, this time with a bit more conviction.

“You can barely stand up straight.” Martyn frowns, still holding her around the waist. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

“No!” She protests, and she tries to make her voice sound firm, stern. “No hospitals.”

“Mrs. Royce–Lannister, this probably has to do with—” Willam cuts himself off, glancing at Jon, and frustration is apparent in his voice. “Your condition. You need to see a doctor immediately.” 

(Her condition.)

(The stomach virus?)

Still, Myranda fights.“My family, they’ll know.” And then her voice breaks a little. “Jaime—”

“Okay, okay,” Jon says quickly to appease her. The last thing he wanted was her  _ crying.  _ He was shit at comforting girls when they were crying. “No hospitals.”

“That’s not for you to say.” Martyn says, glaring at him.

He was right, of course. And there was no way Myranda couldn’t go to the hospital, not when she was like this. But an idea begins to form in his head, and he takes out his phone, preparing to dial Ned’s number.

“What if I knew another way?”

***

It takes a moving of heaven and earth, basically. 

After they pay Jaqen for his service, they have to sneak out of the restaurant to avoid the paparazzi. Bronn and Jory and Myranda’s other two guards pull the cars around. The drive to Uncle Aemon’s manor is faster than usual, with Martyn taking a few liberties with traffic laws. When they arrive, Ned and Dr. Luwin arrive only 15 minutes later. 

They turn one of the many guestrooms into a makeshift doctor’s office. Myranda is propped up on the bed, while Dr. Luwin inspects her. At her insistence, Jon remains with her, standing in the corner of the room. Ned is downstairs, keeping Aemon company. 

He takes her temperature, flashes a light in her eyes, and checks her heart beat. “A bit sluggish.” He mutters. He feels her lymph nodes. Asks her to describe her symptoms. She’s so out of it, that Lancel supplies them for her. (Nausea, dizziness, headaches, sporadic mood swings, and fatigue.)

He takes some kind of device out that he uses to prick her finger without warning. Myranda yelps, bolting straight up, and both her guards rush to her side.

“Ow!” She snaps, cradling her finger and glaring at Dr. Luwin, who simply just shrugs at her irritation, and focused on the device in his hand. It beeps and he hums in thought.

“Blood pressure isn’t low.” He remarks, scratching at his chin. “Most of your symptoms point to dehydration, but… when was the last time you menstruated?

Jon bites back a wince, heat flooding his cheeks. He wasn’t one of those guys or anything… He’d bought tampons and shit like that for Ygritte before, but it was different when he was hearing someone else talking about it with a professional. These things were private for a reason.

Still, he stays.

Myranda doesn’t seem bothered by the question. Nor embarrassed. Instead, she just looks down the window, answering bleakly, “Two months ago.” 

“Have you considered taking a pregnancy test?” 

“A  _ pregnancy test? _ ” Jon bleats. 

And he thinks.

Myranda being pregnant seemed a lot more likely than her still recovering from a stomach virus from over a month ago. All the signs were there. Nausea, vomiting, mood swings, a missed period. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

She twists her ring on her finger, biting her lip. “I don’t… I don’t need to. I already know.”

“You’re  _ pregnant _ ?” Jon gapes. She knew this whole time? He can’t help but smile, and he goes up to hug her. “Myranda, that’s great!”

Her face crumples, and she begins to  _ wail. _

_ (Shit.)  _

“Don’t—don’t cry.” Jon stammers frantically, rubbing her shoulders. Her sobs just become louder, muffled in his shirt. “Please don’t cry.”

“I think we should give them some time alone.” He hears Dr. Luwin mutter to Martyn and Lancel, who after glaring at him suspiciously, seem to reluctantly agree. And then he’s left with a broken Myranda.

There’s no way in  _ fuck  _ that he’s just not gonna screw this up even more. 

“He’s gonna hate me.” Myranda sniffles, pulling back and rubbing at her eyes.

“He could never hate you.” Jon didn’t know Jaime very well, but he felt like it was true all the same. The way he was worried about her today, he definitely loved her. 

“He will.” She stresses, hiccuping. “Just the other night, his best friend, Addam announced his wife was pregnant, and then he turned to me and told me, “thank the seven that’s not us!” Little does he know, it is us!!”

“He wouldn’t have married someone he didn’t want kids with.” Jon argues gently, handing her a bunch of tissues from the box on the nightstand. That he knew was true. You don’t marry someone you don’t want to have kids with. That was just common sense.

(But from what he heard, Jaime didn’t have much of that…)

“Why shouldn’t he? We never talked about having kids!” She declares, the pitch of her tone rising higher and higher. “I certainly didn’t think I was gonna have any, Ella and Tom were more than enough for me, and Joff doesn’t even live with us—”

“Myranda.” Jon cuts her off swiftly, sternly. He sensed she needed a little of that right now. He squeezes her shoulder gently. “Everything is going to be alright.”

“You’re just saying that.” Her lower lip quivers, and her eyes are watering again. 

(He was.)

(He totally was.)

She didn’t need to know that, though. He searches for words to say, thinks of what someone more well equipped for this situation would say. Like Arianne. Or Rhaenys. Hell, even Aegon. 

“I’m not.” Jon lies, and sighs. “I know it sounds cheesy, but. You love each other.”

He had no doubt about that. The way they looked at each other at Elia’s birthday party, the way the media had singlehandedly named them the royal couple of Westeros. He knew first hand that not everything they published was true, but...listening to their argument only confirmed it.

“It will work itself out.” He tells her.

Myranda laughs bitterly, hopelessly. “And what if it doesn’t?”

“It will.” Jon repeats. 

But he’s losing her, to the waves of self doubt that are drowning her. He searches for something to say, thinks about Rhaenys, compassionate, brilliant Rhaenys.

“The way he looks at you— you don’t look at someone like that unless you love them very much.”

Jon watches it melt then, all of the doubt, most of the fear, and it’s replaced by something that looks scarily enough like hope. Myranda chokes out a laugh, wiping her eyes. “You sound like your sister.”

He grins. “She’s the smartest person I know.”

He leaves her to her own thoughts, then, to get cleaned up and ready to go. He jogs downstairs to see Ned just about to head up. He stops when he sees him. “Everything alright?”

Jon can’t really say for certain, but he does know this. “It will be.”

Myranda comes downstairs ten minutes later, more herself. Her makeup has been adjusted, the bounce in her confident step is back, and her smile is there, her real one.

“I owe you big time for this.” She tells him, grabbing his hands. “ _ Seriously _ . Thank you.”

“It was no problem.” Jon says, and it startled him how much he means it, and so do his next words. “It was good to see you.” 

“You too.” Myranda bites her lip, but then she reaches forward and embraces him quickly. Tightly. She pulls back, and points at him. “Anything you need ever… just call me.”

“Yeah.” He nods at her. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

***

The rest of his work day dredges by slowly. He buries himself in more files. Rearranges his desk. Smokes a cigarette or two, but still, since his mind isn’t preoccupied as it was, Sansa is back on his mind again, and even more than that, that damned key to the storage locker that Ned gave him.

He had forgotten about it, but now it was burning a hole in his pocket. He turns it around in his hand, smoothing his thumb over the ridges. In a way, this key would let him see his mother again. In another, it would just make everything a million times worse for him. 

His chest hurts. He opens the bottom drawer of his desk, and drops the key in there, slamming it.

_ (Closing can’t come soon enough.) _

When it does, it’s only when Ned reminds him before he gets into the car, that it’s Rickon’s ceremony tonight. Instead of going all the way back home to freshen up, he reluctantly decides to just to go to the Stark house. Even if Sansa probably wasn’t going to be there, his heart still speeds up at the thought of seeing her after yesterday. 

Jon doesn’t have time to think about that when he arrives, though. The house is in utter chaos.

Bran is teasing Arya for wearing a color other than black, and a dress at that, and she’s attempting to throttle him. Jon and Ned both walk into the foyer to find them wrestling each other to the ground, while Osha is trying in futility to pull them apart. 

“I can  _ never  _ come home to any peace.” Ned growls the gritted teeth. Jon bites back a laugh, as his voice raises. “Bran, you know  _ better  _ than to hit your sister.”

“It was self defense!” He shoots back, glasses askew. He adjusts them, standing up. His sweater has a hole in it the size of a tiny fist. “She started it!”

“Did not!” Arya snarls.

“Did too!”

“Did  _ not _ !”

“ENOUGH!” Ned shouts, rubbing at his temples. “One more word, and I’m taking both of your phones.”

That shuts them up real quick. 

Just then, Rickon, surprisingly amiss from all the drama for once, bounds down the stairs. His hair looks unusually combed and tame, and he’s wearing a blue button down shirt, with his tie fitted snugly around the collar. The only thing missing is his  _ pants.  _

“Why are you not ready yet?” Ned asks tiredly. “And what have I told you about running amok without pants on? You’re nine. It’s not cute anymore.”

“Amok,” Bran whispers to Arya, and the two of them dissolve into snickers. Jon is at least able to cover his with a cough. Rickon glares at all of them, though.

“Osha was ironing my pants.” He says haughtily, nose upturned. “And Sansa says I’m always cute, thank you very much.” 

Jon’s laughter stops at the mention of Sansa, and it takes everything in him to refrain from asking them if she was here.

“Where is your sister? She didn’t leave with that boy before I got home, did she?” Ned questions.

“She’s still getting ready.” Arya rolls her eyes. “You know how long it takes her.”

“That’s not her fault! She had to fix my tie.” Rickon holds the tail of the fabric proudly. “She says I look like very grown up dressed like this.”

“Grown ups don’t walk around without their pants on.” Bran says amusedly.

Rickon narrows his eyes. “Actually, Tom cruise did in freaky business.”

“You mean  _ Risky Business _ ?” Arya starts cackling, and Bran is holding his stomach, wheezing and unable to breath.

“Whatever it’s called!” Rickon huffs. That only causes them to laugh more. He goes to push the both of them. Osha grabs him, throwing him over her shoulder.

“Pants first.” Osha commands tiredly. “Then you can beat them up.”

Rickon scowls, and over Osha’s shoulder, he balls up his fist and pounds it in the palm of his hand, promising retribution. Bran and Arya are anything but scared, as it only pushes them into hysterics.

“I’ve told you two about antagonizing your little brother.” Ned points at them, but his lips twitching exposes his true feelings. “It’s his night. One more time, and I’ll take your phones.”

Arya groans, crossing her arms over her chest. “We fight, you take our phones. We  _ get along _ , and you take our phones. Can we do  _ anything? _ ”

“You’re  _ literally  _ oppressing us!” Bran throws his hands up in the air.

Ned chuckles, loud and deep. “Next, I’m going to oppress you into changing your sweater. Everyone needs to be ready to leave in 20. Come on! Chop chop.” 

Ned is pushing urging a whining Bran upstairs to his room, while Arya and Jon are left in the foyer alone. She goes to the mirror, and attempts to fix her hair, which was a wreck after going all WWE on Bran.

“You look nice.” Jon teases her.

“Shut up.” She scoffs, but he watches her lips tilt up a little in the corners. She turns to him, “Thanks. Don’t get used to it.”

The green brings out the gray in her eyes, and she’s only wearing a bit of eyeliner and lip gloss. She  _ does  _ look nice, and like she knows it too. It makes Jon happy, because he knew it took a lot to get to this point.

“I won’t make any promises.”

“What about you? Is that what you’re wearing?”

Jon looks down at his rumpled work clothes. “Think I’ll change.”

“Hurry up, then!” She says, nodding at the stairs. “You have 17 minutes and counting.”

So he does. Realizing how much time he had wasted talking to Arya, he rushes upstairs and into his room quickly. He doesn’t allow himself to look at Sansa’s door. Doesn’t even allow himself to think about her, as he yanks off his tie. He recites facts about the Tallhart cases, managing to distract himself for awhile as he shrugs into a new shirt, until he notices the light under the bathroom door.

The water is running.

And he can hear her, singing gently to herself. He didn’t recognize the song really, just knew that he wanted her to keep singing it. Sansa had always had a nice voice, had been in choir in middle school, but even this, when she was just having fun and singing to herself gently, was something he’d kill to hear everyday. 

Jon presses his ear to the door, and listens for awhile, letting his eyes fall shut.

The water shuts off a few minutes later, and he hears the door to the shower swing open. Jon steps back a little. She’s humming, now, he can hear the patter of her wet feet against the tile. But then her humming stops.

It’s only then does he remember that his light is on.

She knows he’s here.

All Jon can do is stand still.

He can hear her breathing, quietly. It stops, and then the doorknob turns, slightly. He finds himself holding his breath too. But then he hears her sigh, and she lets go of the door. A few seconds later, her bathroom door shuts, and he’s alone again. 

Jon doesn’t even know to  _ begin  _ to bridge this gap between them.

***

It’s Ned who finds him in the study five minutes later. He’s adjusting the buttons of his coat, frowning. “What are you doing in here?” 

_ (Hiding.) _

“Nothing.” Jon lies, resting his chin on his desk. He wants to look as innocent as possible. Not like he was sulking over an unrequited crush on his godfather’s eldest daughter. Not like he was trying to figure out how to make it go away. “Just… chilling.”

“Chilling.” Ned repeats. “Right.”

The bemusement leaves his face, and he adjusts his collar. Unlike Jon, he’s not going tieless. “Bran’s almost ready. You riding with us?”

_ (Sansa probably tied his, too.) _

Some time alone would do him some good. He shakes his head. “I’ll follow.”

Ned nods. In the foyer, the sound of the doorbell echoes through the house. The sound of shoes scuffing against the tile let’s him know it’s being answered. It’s Arya who bellows, “Sansa! Loren is here!”

Jon can feel a muscle ticking in his jaw. 

Loras, being the dickwad he is, laughs goodnaturedly. Upstairs, he hears a door slam. Sansa doesn’t find it so amusing. “His name is  _ Loras. _ ”

“Whatever his name is, he doesn’t have all night.” Arya says, as if he’s not standing right beside her. Jon loves her for that. “Hurry up, will you?”

“Don’t rush me.” There’s the sound of heels clicking evenly down the stairs. “And don’t be rude.”

And Jon looks. He  _ has  _ too.

He really wishes he didn’t. 

The first thing he sees is legs. Smooth, shapely, legs that seem to stretch on for ages, in strappy white heels. He forces himself to look up a little more and he finds thighs, barely covered by the white fabric stretched across her body. It’s short, and might as well be strapless with how thin the straps were. It looks like a second skin on her, in a good way. She’s wearing a sheer white button up over it, which doesn’t really do anything as it doesn’t obscure anything. Her red hair flows across her back like fire, and Jon is certain that her smile is the sun, and it makes  _ him  _ smile, until his view is obscured, by Loras, leaning into kiss her cheek. She giggles. 

Jon’s fist clenches.

“Dollface,” Loras murmurs in amazement, twirling her around so he could see get a complete view. “You look gorgeous. As always.”

“Thank you.” She says shyly. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

Jon turns to Ned, who’s observing the exchange himself, but with a small smile on her lips. Gods, he really did like this guy. Ignoring how annoyed that made him, he asks, “You’re really gonna let her go out looking like that?”

Ned turns to him, and then turns back to Loras and Sansa. Thankfully, he doesn’t like what he sees. “Sansa. Get in here.”

She comes quickly. Jon’s heart pounds faster at the sight of her up close, and even more at her eyes on him. He can’t read this look on her, and he’d kill to know what it means. 

But he doesn’t really know what to say.

Too soon, her attention is back on Ned. “Yes, Daddy?”

Ned pinches the bridge of his nose. “What are you wearing?”

Sansa blinks confusedly. “It’s a dress.”

Jon can’t stop himself from scoffing,  “Says who?”

“Calvin Klein.” Sansa’s gaze slides back on to him. Her eyes narrow into thin slits. Her anger inexplicably relieves him. Her attention relieves him. “I doubt you know who that is though, being the socialist Neanderthal you are.” 

Jon barks out a laugh. This look he knows. It’s familiar, and it shocks him how much he’s missed it. “That’s a new one.”

Sansa opens her mouth to fire back something else, but Ned holds up his hand. “Don’t start. Not you two.” 

They both stop.

“You need to put something on to cover up, love.” Ned tells her, voice a bit softer.

“I am wearing something to cover up.” Sansa pouts, pointing to her sheer button up. “That’s what this is for.”

“It’s not really doing anything.” Jon mutters.

She rolls her eyes so hard, he  _ knows _ it must hurt her. “Gods, who  _ asked  _ you?” 

Before Jon can think of something to fire back, Ned’s voice gets sterner. Harder. “Go upstairs to put something on. And bring the boy in here before you do.” 

Sansa presses her lips into a thin line, but she leaves, and comes back with Loras a few seconds later. He isn’t the least bit afraid, the overconfident prick. His smile is comfortable, and he entirely too friendly. “Hey, Mr. Stark.”

“Loras.” Ned smiles back. “Nice to see you again.”

“You too.” Loras turns to Jon next, and he looks a bit hesitant. His smile wanes, but he bows nonetheless. “Your Grace. It’s nice to see you, as well.”

Jon almost doesn’t say anything, like last time, too busy relishing in the fact that Loras finds him intimidating, but he knows Sansa is looking at him, and he knows that if he wanted to make things good between them anytime soon, then this would be a good start.

“Hello.” Jon says, in the most civil tone he could muster.

Loras smiles in relief. 

“I’ll be back.” Sansa tells him, and unexpectedly, it’s Jon she turns to next. “Can I borrow you for a second?”

Jon doesn’t really know what to say, he’s too shocked.

“If she still wants to go this show, she won’t murder you.” Ned teases. “Go on. Me and Loras have some things to talk about.” 

If Ned was going to threaten Loras, Jon very much wanted to be there because he wanted to make a few threats of his own, but just as he protests, Sansa walks forward and tugs on his hand. 

And he  _ really  _ can’t refuse her when she does that.

They’re far from the study, and in the kitchen when she turns to him. It takes him aback, how soft her blue eyes are. “Thank you.”

Jon is lost. “For?”

“Being nice to him.” Sansa says. “He was worried about it all day.” 

It was good to know that he intimidated Loras that much. Jon takes it as a win. But he doesn’t let Sansa see that. “No problem.”

She licks her lips and looks down at her shoes. She’s still not letting go of his hand. “About the other night—”

“Don’t.” Jon says immediately. “I started it. It was my fault.”

“I shouldn’t have said those things,” Sansa says softly, her blue eyes start to water, and it breaks him. “I didn’t mean them. I didn’t—”

Jon pulls her to him, slowly. She doesn’t step back, just leans in to him and squeezes. For the first time all day, he relaxes, with Sansa in his arms. “I know, baby. I know.”

She sniffs, nuzzling into his cheek. “I don’t like when we fight.”

“You do. Sometimes.” Jon jokes, stroking her hair. 

Sansa laughs, and pulls back, scrunching her nose playfully. “Most of the time.” 

“The first step is admitting you have a problem.” Jon deadpans. “I’m proud of you.” 

Sansa makes a sound of feigned disgust, and shoves him back, and he laughs. She can’t look annoyed for long, and she smiles at him, as he tugs her back to him.

“You should come tonight.” She tells him, pushing a curl from his face and behind his ear. 

Jon’s smile fades a little, and he rolls his eyes. “With you and Loras?”

“It won’t be like that.” Sansa protests, poking her lower lip out. “Wylla and Margaery will be there, too. And Jeyne. And Alys and Sig. Theon’s been bugging me to ask you for forever. Says you haven’t been answering his texts.”

Jon snorts. “I blocked him.”

“Oh.” Sansa says, and then brightens. “I’m sure he’ll forgive you if you come!” 

Nothing about this sounds appealing. Being around a bunch of people who he hasn’t seen in years, dancing, watching Loras dance with Sansa, watching him  _ kiss  _ Sansa—

“I promised Rickon.” Jon says, rubbing the sides of her arms. “Theon will just have to live without me.”

Sansa looks like she expected that. She shrugs. “It was worth a shot. Mind if I borrow your leather jacket? Arya stole mine and left it in her locker at school.”

“Sure you want anything a socialist Neanderthal would wear?” He asks pointedly.

She smiles sweetly, leaning into him. It’s the type of smile Rickon uses when he’s trying to convince Nan to make him a second sundae. “You know I was just  _ joking. _ ”

“Mhm.” Jon says, amused. 

“Pleeeeeeease?”

“Don’t start with that.” Jon groans, wrinkling his nose. “I’ll go get it.” 

“Thank you.” She kisses his cheek. It’s barely a peck, but it pleases him all the same. “Hurry up, I think Bran is ready by now.”

Jon makes a quick trip upstairs to grab his jacket, and hands it to Sansa. It’s a bit big on her, but Jon supposes that’s what she was going for, as she look really satisfied. She pulls her long hair out from under the collar, grinning. “How do I look? Badass.”

“Yeah,” Jon says offhandedly, because as great Sansa looks right now, all he can focus is her neck. The necklace he gave her isn’t on it. He tries to make his voice sound as casual as possible. “You lose your necklace, or something.”

“Oh.” Sansa looks down at the pearls around her neck. “No. I just wanted try the pearls tonight. I figured the dragonfly would clash with it.”

And this shouldn’t worry him.

It’s just a necklace, truly. But it feels like something else too. Like it was him, that she was wearing the pearls for Loras. And that’s stupid, because they aren’t even together, all of this is stupid, the fact that he even likes her is stupid—

He’s losing her to Loras. 

“Take plenty of pictures of Rickon for me tonight, yeah?” Sansa says. “I don’t want to miss a single moment.”

“Sure.” Jon mutters.

“I’ll see you.” She waves, and leaves the kitchen to retrieve Loras from the study.

And Jon can’t do anything but let her.

***

“You are the most annoying person I’ve ever met.” Bran proclaims 45 minutes later.

They have just watched Rickon receive his medal for MVP, and walk across the stage with a smug grin. For once, the attention isn’t on him, as he has on a hat and is mostly in disguise. Bronn and Jory stand at the entrance.

There’s so much on his mind, he can only clap half heartedly. But now he turns to Bran, and says, “Excuse me?”

“All the  _ brooding _ you’re doing.” They’re very lucky that Ned and Osha had ventured closer to the stage to record, and Arya is busying herself at the buffet table. “The  _ sulking _ . It’s fucking with my chakra.” 

Jon doesn’t even know what a chakra is, but still, he begins to deny: “I’m not—”

“Really?” Bran shakes his head. “You’re still dumb enough to lie to me?”

And Jon sighs. 

_ (It’s not like there’s anyone else I can talk to.) _

“Sansa went to that thing with Loras.”

“And now you’re having a pity party over it because you’re at a kids soccer banquet on Friday night?”

“I’m not having a pity party.” Jon snaps. “For the record, she invited me—”

“What?” Bran’s eyes go wide, and he pushes the frame of his glasses further onto his nose.

Jon starts again, not taking too well to the fact that it surprised him so much. “She invited me—”

“Yeah, I got that part dumbass,” Bran cuts him off, scowling. “I just don’t understand.”

“Understand what?” Jon asks, feeling a migraine start to form. This kid was gonna be the death of him.

He rolls his eyes. “Why you’re still here.”

“That’s not my scene.” Jon grumbles. “I hate dancing, and big crowds, and—”

“Loras.” Bran supplies helpfully. “Yet every second you remain here, is another second Sansa is still with him. So again… what are you still doing her?” 

And he’s completely right. 

The longer he sat here, doing nothing, was the longer Loras had Sansa under his spell. The more likely it was that he would lose her. Who knows when Loras became her boyfriend, if she’d let him hold her? If she’s kiss his cheek like she did sometimes, argue with him, let him call her baby? 

“Why are you doing this?” Jon asks him, bewildered. “It’s not weird to you? She’s your sister—”

“And you’re my brother, for the most part.” Bran admits. “But if Sansa is going to give any guy a chance after everything that’s happened, it should be someone who I know wouldn’t hurt her.

He had Bran’s approval. 

That changed everything. Before, he thought it would all be impossible, but if Bran was fine with it, who’s to say Rickon wouldn’t be? Ned, Arya, and Robb were still up in the air, but—

It’s more than he had yesterday.

“I wouldn’t.” Jon promises. “I’d never hurt her.”

“I know.” Bran smiles, but then it’s gone in a second. “Because I’d castrate you.”

_ (What is with him and Robb and genital mutilation?) _

Ned heads back to the table, Rickon at his side, who comes up to his brothers excitedly, shoving his medal in their faces. “Did you see me? Did you see me up there? I’m MVP!”

“Dude, you rocked it.” Bran tells him holding out his hand. Rickon jumps up to slap it. 

“Totally.” Jon agrees. “I’m so proud of you.”

“We all are.” Ned says, smiling. “Plus your sister, wherever she is.” 

“Stuffing her face at the buffet table.” Bran jerks his chin into her direction, where Arya was gnawing on a cookie and scrolling through her phone. 

“I’ll go get her.” Ned sighs. “This calls for a family photo.”

After Ned departs, Jon squats so he can look Rickon in the eye. “You did great, kid. And I hate to leave, but I got somewhere I gotta be, now.”

Rickon nods.“Okay.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“The ceremony is over.” Rickon shrugs, and then his face brightens at something behind him. “Hey! Lyanna!” And then he darts off, gone.

“Go get her.” Bran tells him, slapping him on the back.

“Get who?” 

They turn to see Arya and Ned behind them, both of them gnawing on cooking shaped like soccer balls, and wearing identically confused expressions.

“You, Duh!” Jon says, with a forced laugh. “I was just gonna go look for you.”

“I’m here.” Arya says between chews. 

“Yeah but, we didn’t know that.” Bran says. “Jon was gonna say goodbye because he has to leave.” 

“Where?” Ned asks.

“Uh—the club—” Out of sight, Bran pinches Jon on the shoulder, and he immediately corrects himself. “The club soda. My uncle Aemon needs some. He ran out and his stomach gets upset easily.” 

Arya squints suspiciously but Ned doesn’t seem to suspect anything. He nods in understanding. “Alright. Let’s just take this group photo first.”

It’s an effort to locate Rickon, but Jon volunteers solely to get away from Arya’s scrutinizing stare. He finds him, and drags him away from Lyanna by the collar, who he happened to be bickering with. They take 3 photos, courtesy of Osha. 

Jon is all but shoving his jacket on, rushing to the door, when Ned tells him, “Have fun.”

He freezes. Frowns. “What?”

“With the club soda, I mean.” Ned claps him on the shoulder, with a wink. 

_ (Does he know?) _

Jon is in the car, trying to convince himself that he doesn’t. He could have been going to any club right now, Ned didn’t necessarily know which one. Best case scenario, he thought Jon was ditching them for a Friday night club outing, worst case, Ned thought he was ditching them to stop Sansa’s date.

But for some reason, after dealing with Bran, the worst case scenario doesn’t seem to be so bad after all.

Not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of comments help motivate me! Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me @jeynesgreyjoy on tumblr! Kudos and comments are appreciated!


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